


A Spoonful of Promises

by desla_be



Series: Learning How to Smile [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Hair Salon, Haircuts, Masturbation, Pining, Sandor needs a very long hug, Slow Burn, date!, fantasized smut, sansa is a hairdresser
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-22 13:15:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22783510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desla_be/pseuds/desla_be
Summary: The premise for this fic is that Sansa’s 21, Sandor’s 25. He works for her dad, good old Ned Stark, because Ned is like pretty well-off and just really likes Sandor, who he’s hired to do things around the house because their house is quite large and there are a lot of things to do.slow burn fluff x angst ficRated M for language & sexual contentOriginally a one-shot!
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Series: Learning How to Smile [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1647958
Comments: 108
Kudos: 203





	1. Grooming Day

**Author's Note:**

> Ummm so 1.) for those of you who’ve been reading my one and only other fic, I’ve been like “new fic coming up!”- this is NOT that fic. I have chapters of that fic written and tucked away but I wanted to pop out a cute little modern one-shot and that’s all this is. 
> 
> 2.) After writing chapter 11 (I believe) of my one and only other fic (TLBWtP), their little hair-playing thing was a lot of fun for me to write so I wanted to expand on it in another fic. But hair play is something I really like, so if I reuse that in fics/chapters in the future, please don’t slay me :)

“So what are you thinking for today?” 

_Thinking for today?_ Sandor hadno fucking idea what he was _thinking for today_.  He’d only come to this stupid salon because _she_ worked here. And now she stood with her hands on the back of his swiveling chair, making eye contact with him through the mirror expectantly. 

“Oh, um...” _Fuck_. _What?_

He glanced around at some of the other people, and some of the posters on the wall for inspiration, but ultimately he was still speechless. _Idiot_ , Sandor thought to himself, for not even thinking about the actual _haircut_ part of this ordeal. 

Sansa Stark had managed to wrench her way into his head and heart, where she now seemed in very comfortable, _permanent_ occupancy . Truly, she hadn’t done a thing, barely even talked to him. Though when they _did_ talk, when she flipped her hair around her shoulder and when she asked how his days were— well, it was hard to think about her platonically. 

Sandor didn’t have the first clue on what to do about it. He’d taken a job with her father at their home. Just some weeks ago. Four or five, maybe? He’d been working for one of Ned’s friends, Robert Baratheon, and Ned had invited Sandor to do some repairs for him. He said it probably wouldn’t be a long-term thing, but he’d been able to provide Sandor with work for about a month. 

He’d invited Sandor into his home, introduced him to his children. And Sandor had met... Sansa. She was too jaw-dropping to even look at someone like him, Sandor thought, but she did anyway. And that made everything worse. 

That was all, really. He’d only come to see  _her_. In conversation, her mother Catelyn had mentioned that she worked at this hairdressers and that made it pretty easy. 

Her mom was one of the best people to converse with in this situation, because she _loved_ to talk about Sansa. And who was he to complain? Everything that he heard about her made him more helplessly infatuated. Catelyn liked to talk about Sansa’s art, and her piano-playing skills, and what classes she was taking. 

Sandor looked at her through the mirror again. She wore a pastel turtleneck and an overall skirt. He averted his gaze. She was so beautiful, he thought, and being in such a small proximity was beginning to make him uncomfortable. 

He wondered what she thought about him. Did she think he was hideous? If she did, she hid it well enough. Sansa treated him like a normal person, which is what _really_ did it. _Is that pathetic_? Sandor wondered, to be attracted to virtually the only person who treated him with respect.

_Perhaps this had not been an ingenious idea after all_. Not only would Sansa Stark have to make do with his filthy mane, his half-burned scalp, but he would have to stare at his face for at least an hour. Sandor was not wanting for more quality time with his burns. Maybe... he could look at her instead, though he’d have to be discreet about it. 

“Sandor?”

He jerked his glance up to her eyes.

”Have you decided yet? On what style you’d like...?” 

Sandor gulped. “Oh... Well... I’ve never actually been to a hairdresser before.” _Way to make yourself seem even more revolting.  _

His mother used to trim his hair, and when she died, his biggest concern was not who would next  fulfill the role of his barber. So he didn’t find anyone new to cut it, and when it grew too long for his delight, he gathered the whole of it into his fist and cut it at the base of his neck. His face was a  _horror,_ so surely an  uneven haircut wouldn’t be the most off-putting thing about him. 

“Oh,” Sansa smiled politely. 

_Yeah,_ he thought, she _ thinks I’m disgusting. Is it that bad? Are proper haircuts really necessary?  _ It seemed like a wast of money to him.  Sandor thought the tri-monthly chop he gave himself sufficed... 

“So do you think you’ll only be wanting a trim?” 

_A _ _trim._ He glanced at his scars. Just a moment ago, he’d been irritated that he’d have to stare at them for a while, if she’d be doing his hair  for a while— but just a  _trim_? How long could that take? If it was _anything_ like the ‘trim’ he’d been giving  himself...

“Can you wash it as well? It’s been a while.” _Oh my fucking god._ Sandor clenched his fists, and caught sight of himself beginning to blush . Somehow he didn’t think she would be wrong to ask him to leave. And it didn’t seem a half bad idea anyway, as he couldn’t account for everything that might be in his hair.

Sandor watched her go rosy through the mirror and look down at his head. He suspected that very soon, she would back away from the styling chair. They’d send him far away from their establishment to deal with himself. _No dogs allowed,_ or something like that. 

But she didn’t. Instead, she met his eyes through the glass and said, “A wash comes with the trim. A style, as well.”

Sandor stared at her blankly.

“Right,“ Sansa laughed, “so I just wanted to know if you wanted anything significant cut off or if you only want a trim.”

_Hell_ if  he knew. Anything that would make him less ugly. “What do you think I should do?”

She put her hands through his hair, brushing it with her fingers and pulling the strands outwards so they fell loosely around his face. Her fingertips sent little tingles from the back of his neck and through his spine and he held his breath to try and stop himself from trembling too noticeably. 

When was the last time someone had even touched him? Not erotically, but just in general, in passing: when was the last time someone touched his shoulder or shook his hand? He couldn’t even remember, and now here he was shaking in his seat because Sansa Stark, who he’d  _ paid _ for this appointment, had her hands in his hair.

“You want _my_ opinion?” 

Sandor nodded. Why the fuck else would he have asked for it?

She shuffled the hair to the side and— _that fucking_ _ patch_, where the hair stopped growing.  _ No, stop_. He jerked, and she pulled her hands away abruptly. 

“Are you okay? Did I—“

“Fine,” he put his hand up to stop her. “It’s sensitive right there.”

It wasn’t _._ In truth, he couldn’t feel a thing there, he just didn’t want her to touch it. Didn’t want her to leave it exposed for them both to stare at. 

“Oh! I’m so sorry, I won’t touch it again.”

He nodded, trying to gentle his expression so that she wouldn’t be too uncomfortable. 

“If I had your hair, I would keep the length,” Sansa said. “It looks nice like this.”

Sandor bit his lip. _Nice, like this._ If she liked it, there was nothing else to consider. “Ok,” Sandor nodded.

“So we can go over there,” Sansa gestured to a curious looking chair with a wide bowl at the top. She started speaking but he couldn’t make out a word.

She had put this scratchy sheet over him, pinching its clasp at his neck and he thought he looked an absolute fool as he walked over to the reclined chair. It seemed as if everyone was looking at him, too.

Sansa sat him down in the chair and as his weight settled, the leather-cushioned neck reclined further into the bowl—  _O _h_ , a sink_ . _Suppose that makes more sense. Right, because she’d mentioned a wash..._ He really couldn’t focus on anything other than the rate of his heart. 

“Lift your neck?” Sansa requested and when he complied, she placed a rag against the curved lip of the black bowl. He let his head lower against the towel, which felt much nicer than the cold porcelain. 

She gathered his hair and pulled it back, letting it fall into the sink. With his head back like that, he found that the only thing he could see was her face right above his, smiling down kindly. It was overwhelming, however, and awkward, so he stared at the ceiling instead. 

The water turned on. And he heard a few plastic bottles clink onto her side table. “Let me know if it’s too hot or cold.” 

The water came down on his scalp. It was warm, soft pressure, coming from a hand-held hose. She wet the whole of his head, aiming the hose along his hairline as she moved it back and forth. The narrow streams of water tickled and prickled his skin so acutely that he could feel his fingers responding to the sensation.

Sandor had been getting bored of observing the ceiling, but when her hands went into his hair with what he assumed was shampoo, he couldn’t keep his eyes open if he’d wanted to. Her nimble little fingers scrubbed his scalp and pulled on his locks and it took everything to just keep _quiet_.

He could feel her touch everywhere, all the way into his toes. 

_ Is this what they do every time? Was this the part that people paid for?  _ He would be coming here  much more often if _this_ was how they treated their customers. But... it would have to be her. _What a nightmare that would be_ , Sandor thought, if someone else had wound up to be his hairdresser.

“Is your scalp okay? The sensitive spot, I mean,” she asked, her fingers still kneading his head. 

He was quick to nod away her concern. “It doesn’t hurt at  all.”

Sandor felt like a dog, euphoric and drooling from a firm rub behind the ears. He wondered if she could do this all day. _ Would it be inappropriate to ask her not to stop?_ Her touch, so sensitive on his neck; it was already beginning to have unwanted effects of him. If she kept it up... 

“Good,” Sansa said. Her voice was too sweet in his ears. 

It was humiliating and shameful to say the  least. Laying back with her fingers in his hair and enjoying it so much that the thing he was  most grateful for was the long scratchy sheet that hid his growing arousal. 

_ Surely this can’t be the first time that someone’s gotten a hard-on in situations like this. It can’t be, _ Sandor assured himself. Though he wasn’t keen on considering the other men she might have had similar effects on during an appointment.

Yet the unusual part was that it wasn’t entirely  arousal. His pants were straining well enough, but it wasn’t like... like he wanted to sneak into the bathroom with her and fuck against the wall. He just wanted her to keep going. To keep scratching him behind the ear and at the base of his neck. And maybe continue rubbing him down the shoulder. (And he wanted her to touch his cock.)

The scene changed in his head, to her bedroom. Sandor had been in there before, once or twice when her mom asked him to help her carry some things in. He’d heard Sansa singing through the door a few times, as well... but he’d never been in there with her. 

She’d decorated it well. Three of the walls were blue and one of them of orange. They had big posters of her favorite musicians and generous scatter of her own artwork. She grew flowers in the windowsill and had fuzzy rugs covering most of the wood floor, which was probably too  _ cold _ for her bare feet at night. 

She probably didn’t even know that he’d been in there, but now all he could think about was her bringing him in by the hand and gently pushing him onto her big bed. The mattress was probably incredible, because obviously her dad _loved _ to spoil his kids, but even if it was hard as a rock, even if it made his back sore every single night he’d prefer the damned bed as long as she was in it. 

He couldn’t block out the fantasies of her shutting the door, shutting out the lights and feeling her way back to him; back onto the bed. For him to snatch her into his arms in the dark and hear her gasp and giggle and groan. 

And then, then she could take his shirt off. The dark was fine for exploration because his scars were not textured enough for her to notice by touch alone. And then, _fuck_ , her hands— she could touch him anywhere and everywhere she pleased. Roll him away, so that his back was to her and she would scratch him down the spine and knead his hips and put her lips on his shoulder. He’d probably be done for before she’d even made it to his cock. 

But she wouldn’t get the chance, because he would flip over her, pull off her shirt and bra and... The wrap of her legs around his hips, the arch of her back as he bit her nipple. 

_ Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck._

His hard-on wasn’t very subtle  anymore. Though Sandor’s biggest concern wasn’t that she might be able to see it _now—_ _because thank god for the uncomfortable scratchy sheet—_ but later, when the appointment had ended and he would have to take it off _._

She took her fingers away from his head to wash out all of the soap, but they returned soon enough with what, again, he could only assume was conditioner. 

In the same fashion as before, her touch was sweet: twirling the locks and tugging them gently and rubbing his scalp in firm circles. Sansa was talking to him— talking _at_ him, rather, which Sandor was thankful for... since he couldn’t focus well enough on listening. 

The worst part was when she took her fingers out the second time and he knew that the massaging was over. Sansa rinsed him thoroughly, tousling his hair to make sure all of the product was gone. The water stopped and after a moment, she gathered up all of his hair and twisted a towel around it, ringing out all of the water. 

“Do you mind if I go to the bathroom? Just for a minute.” _Was it obvious?_ He _really_ hoped she could couldn’t tell. 

“No, of course not,” Sansa put her hand at the inside of his elbow comfortingly and pointed towards a door in the back. “It’s over there, just come back to the styling chair when you’re finished. Do you want to leave the cape here?” 

_Shit_. “No,” Sandor said, and somehow she didn’t ask a follow-up question. 

As soon as the door was bolted he put his hands onto the buckle.  _ Why the fuck did I put on a belt today? These pants fit just fine, I didn’t even need the fucking belt_. He didn’t want to soil her styling cape either, so he yanked the clasp and threw it onto the countertop.

The compulsion for urgency wasn’t that he was  _ so hard and he just couldn’t take it anymore _ as much as it was that he didn’t want Sansa and the rest of the fucking salon to think he was destroying their toilet. If it took twenty minutes for him to get back out there, he might just never speak to her again. _Would that be too dramatic?_

He’d no idea how long it was going to take to  _deal_ with himself. However, the fantasies from earlier had been working well enough to get him here so the fastest route might be to turn to that.

_The little bird’s bedroom_. Her delicate fingers under his waistband, one hand in his pants and the other on his burned cheek. Her tight grip on him, back and forth.

_ Too slow, you fucking idiot.  _

_Alright_ , her underwear on the floor, his boxers somewhere discarded in the bed. Her legs bent beside hips, giggling as he fumbled to turn them to one. And when he’d make his way in, her sweet little giggles would break into a moan, her heels would dig into the backs of his thighs. 

Sandor wondered what her hair smelled like and how her skin would feel beneath his. He wondered what sort of songs she would sing them, and if he’d be able to sing any along with her. 

He’d put one hand on the bed to hover, the heel of his other hand beneath her patch of hair to rub over her slick clit.

That did it, eventually. Sandor’s eyes rolled back into the lids momentarily, his vision blurring and his knees threatening to buckle. His skin was icy, yet hot, and he propped his hand against the wall. He cleaned up the mess, though once the five-second euphoria wore off, he only felt disgusting again.

_What right do you have to think of her like that? She isn’t yours. Why the fuck are you even_ here? While his body was satisfied, he wanted to be in her company even less now. 

Sandor went back out and she was there in her styling unit, moving stray bottles around and smiling up at him. It was a little awkward to look at her, knowing that he’d just fucked his hand to vile thoughts of her. But at least his cock would stay down for a while. 

She sat him in the styling chair and picked up a comb. 

_ God_ , she looked so pretty standing there in her little black apron, various hairdressing tools sticking out of the pockets. _Why would she want you?_ Sandor watched her as she pulled the comb through the little knots, hoping she wouldn’t notice his stare. 

But then she did. Their eyes met and she froze, her cheeks going red. Sandor quickly looked away, back at his own lap through the mirror. He wondered how much of a difference it would make if he hadn’t just been wanking in the salon’s bathroom. Did she know? Could she somehow tell? He hadn’t flushed the toilet, because he hadn’t done anything to it, but did she notice that there wasn’t any sound? 

She took out a thin, silver pair of scissors and it disappeared behind his back. If it had been anyone else, he would not have been so calm.

“So, do you like working for my dad?” Sansa was looking at his reflection again, glancing bath and forth between the back of his head and his eyes. 

_Her _ _eyes,_ Sandor thought, beautiful blue moons with narrow navy flecks.  _ She shouldn’t be allowed  to look like that_. 

“Yeah. He pays me fairly. He’s a good man.” 

“He really likes you,” she admitted. “The people he’s hired before, a lot of them have been... underperforming. But you, he talks a lot about how hard of a worker you are.” 

Sandor watched little snippets of his hair fall onto the floor around his seat. Her father  _ liked _ him? Sandor knew that he worked efficiently, but... he wasn’t sure any of his bosses had ever actually  _ liked _ him before. 

“Does he?” Sandor asked dully.  Compliments weren’t exactly rolling in. 

The comb dragging across his scalp felt nice, though it couldn’t compare with the scrubbing from earlier. Sansa’s fingers were magical. 

“But my mom says you’re quiet.” 

Sandor shifted in the swivel chair. As _opposed to what?_ The only thing he ever thought of in that fucking house was _Sansa_ , and he didn’t think either of her parents would appreciate what he had to say about her. 

“You  _ are _ kind of quiet,” she pointed out. 

Sandor looked away. “Well you’re not,” he said. “I’ve heard you singing.”

Sansa used the comb to pull the hair behind his ear. “What?” Her cheeks flushed and she smiled, clearly abashed. 

The prongs were scraping against the back of his neck, and Sandor thought he could close his eyes for just a moment. “At your house. You sing a lot. When I walk around I hear you singing Disney songs, I think.” It was going to be really awkward if they weren’t Disney songs. 

A few more little snippets went to the floor as she measured off her work. 

“I like musicals,” Sansa said. “I had a role in Cinderella last year, and I auditioned for Aladdin, but I didn’t get the part I wanted.” She sprayed something into his damp hair. “Anyway, that’s probably what it is. I sing the soundtracks sometimes. I’ll be more mindful.”

“No,” said Sandor, ”you’re... good. I don’t mind at all.” He couldn’t fathom her being turned down for a role. “Definitely don’t stop on my account.”

Sansa smiled at him. 

Despite his best efforts, Sandor saw his lips turn up to match hers. Though once he saw his reflection, he was quick to close his mouth. _Fuck, those teeth._ His dad wouldn’t pay for his dental care, and he’d needed braces badly. Lately, Sandor had been wearing retainers to straighten out his teeth— and they’d been working well enough, pulling them into a uniform curve— but he wasn’t quite there yet and with her perfect features in mind, he didn’t want her to see his crooked smile.

Sansa put a hand gently on his shoulder, which made him stiffen a little. “You look really nice when you smile like that.” 

She was always using that word. _Nice._ “Uh... thanks, ” he told her after a brief moment of panic. He felt sort of like an idiot saying it, but  her face lit up and that seemed to be worth it. 

She pulled the comb through his hair again, where it had _already_ begun knotting again. The narrow plastic prongs pulled through one of the tangled and he scowled. 

“I’m sorry! Your hair is so fine, it’s hard not to...” her cold fingers met his neck in some sort of _comforting_ gesture, perhaps? Though Sandor immediately felt a shiver run through his body. _Shit_. _Could she feel that too?_

Could it be possible that she was being... _flirtatious_? Sandor hadn’t even thought to hope for as much. He came so that he could spend time with her, that she may even  touch him but in all of his expectations, he would never have let himself hold out for the possibility that she would  _ flirt _ with him.

Sansa bent slightly in front of him to reach for a plastic green bottle of something next to the mirror. Her hair fell past his face and— _O_ _h_ _god, what is_ _that?_ Some honey-sweet smell lingered in a little cloud around her. And her arm brushed against his and he practically fucking panted. 

“I can blow it for you, if you want.”

_“_ _What?_ _”_ Sandor turned the swiveling chair around, fully towards her. _Blow_ it? It was hard not to think anything derogatory, despite the fact that she was probably not offering to suck him off, but just thinking about it made him stiffen anew. _No_ , Sandor squeezed his thigh, _not again_. 

Sansa played with her fingers, pushing and pulling on the knuckles awkwardly. She seemed suddenly very uncomfortable and he wasn’t sure what he was missing. 

“Your hair,” she gestured by picking up a clumped lock and pinching out a few drops of water from the tips. “It’s wet... and I can blow it out,” she pointed to a hairdryer on a shelf under the mirror unit. 

_ Fuck._ “Yeah. Alright.” He dragged his heel on the floor and twisted the chair back the right way, feeling like a fool. 

He looked like an idiot. He looked  _ugly, holy hell_.  The little bird was pulling his hair out with a brush and dragging a warm air-blowing dryer over the locks, exposing his terrifying burns. At least his body was  _ alright_. If he was lucky, she thought so as well.

She spritzed some spray on the outer layer, rubbed it in with her fingers. He couldn’t see much of a difference, but it felt nice. There was less frizz, less straggly flyaways. 

“Okay, I think that’s it. Do you like it? Is it alright?”

“Yeah, it’s alright.“ 

Her expression dropped faster than he expected, so he threw his hands out as if to  pause her. 

“It’s _great_ , it’s _good..._ _thanks.”_

_ Oh, her smile. _ He just wanted her to stop  looking at him like that. It made his knees go weak and he wasn’t even fucking _standing_ yet.

Sansa rang him up and the cost was, really, insulting.Sandor would’ve paid  much more. He gave her a handful of paper change. She tried to shove it back into his hands anyway, though he wouldn’t budge. The truth was that he needed the money far more than her, and if his hands weren’t tucked firmly into his pockets he might’ve even let her give it back.

“Sandor, I—“

“It’s for you,” he said. 

“I can’t take this from you. I don’t need it.”

She didn’t... but she’d never seen his shithole apartment. He didn’t need for her to think he was some half-homeless man this early in their knowing of each other. 

“Yes, you can. Why shouldn’t you? Keep it.” He was sort of chuckling now. _Fucking weirdo,_ he was.

Sansa was frozen for some time, but ultimately pushed the bills into her pockets and smiled. 

They stared at each other for a long, expectant moment. It felt disappointing to leave like this, and he was unsatisfied even though he’d just gotten off twenty minutes ago.

_Oh well. I’ll see her again._ Sandor turned to leave the salon. 

“Wait!” Sansa caught his arm, tugging him around to face her. 

She moved before he could even _think_ about protesting, clamping one hand around his wrist and the other around the back of his neck. She flew up onto her tippy-toes, pulled his head down by the hair she’d just worked on, and pressed her puckered lips to his frozen ones.

Her lips were soft and her nose brushed against his. Sandor couldn’t move, or breathe, or kiss her back. If Sandor had thought that her hands were magical because they’d gotten him to tingle down to the toes... her lips were... _Fuck_. 

Sansa’s fingers pressed into his flesh; one hand on his chest and the other at his hip. He had no fucking idea where he was supposed to touch her.

_Chapstick. Why the fuck didn’t I remember chapstick? And what is she_ thinking _, goddamnit? Does she think my lips are disgusting? Am I the worst kiss she’s ever had?_

_Hell_ , he almost forgot to shut his damned eyes. But by the time he’d finally closed them, finally leaned into her full lips, she was pulling back. 

To his displeasure, she’d let go of him entirely.

Sansa had a deep blush spreading over her cheeks and a sweet smile as she looked at his shoes, twirling her own mint sneakers back and forth. Sandor glanced to his feet as well, though only momentarily for how difficult it was to keep his eyes off of her. 

“I was wondering if.. _maybe_.. you wanted to go on a...  _ date_... with me...” she said quietly, so that the other people in the salon might not hear. 

_ God, a date? A date, a date.  _

His heart was doing this crazy thing behind his chest that he couldn’t catch up with and all of the sudden he was too aware of the blood pumping through his veins.

_A date: the two of them, together, alone—_ she would want some park, probably. Stretch her legs, lay on a blanket, study the pictures in the clouds. For him, it could be anything. He’d be fine sitting in her comfy beanbag chair, sharing his shitty music with her as she drew in her sketchbook. If he was lucky, he might get to play with her hair. They could just talk and he’d be more than satisfied. It was a bigger bone than he deserved anyway, wasn’t it?

Honestly, it didn’t matter. If she wanted him to take her to Mars, he’d try to organize a trip for two. Sandor hoped she didn’t want to go to Mars. 

He glanced back at her, trying to stop his head from going wild over the plans they would make, the places they could go.  _God,_ what if she liked him? The concept was a bit terrifying.

Sandor almost stumbled. What if it went the other way, and she decided he was disgusting and ugly and hated him forever? Her father would fire him probably, to keep things from getting dramatic or awkward. And then they’d just... never see each other again.

Sansa looked shaky in the legs, her stare somewhere on the floor  far away from his face. Now she couldn’t even look at him?

“You don’t have to...” he said, nervous that it was about pity or something of the like. She looked up at him momentarily and her expression had fallen. “No, I mean... ” Sandor swore. 

“I... thought that you might want to. I thought that you might... um...”

“I do,” Sandor said firmly. “I want to.”

Her face lit up again, her blush coming back, and she looked as if she was about to hug him. He readied himself for an embrace... only it never came. 

One of her coworkers, or her boss maybe, since that made more sense, called out her name scoldingly and Sansa was forced to draw away from him. There would be time for a hug or two, Sandor hoped. On their date. Their _date_. 

She inquired if she could call him later. Apparently her mom had given her his phone number...? And her mom must’ve gotten it from Ned...

Sandor started laughing again, though it wasn’t because it was funny. He was _hysterical_ , acting a maniac because she’d kissed him. _And_ they were going on a  _ date_! He was going to have a  _ date_!— with  _ Sansa_. 

“Later. I’ll wait,” Sandor said, wondering what he was going to do if she didn’t end up calling him. 

She nodded, and he walked out of the salon feeling lucky, and confused, and lucky... and confused. 

_Shit_. He was going on a _date_. How the fuck did that happen?He would have to... and then he would need to... and— Ugh. It was going to be a long couple of hours waiting for her call. Despite the crooked teeth, Sandor couldn’t stop himself smiling. 


	2. The Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I really, really wanted to write a sequel. This will have a sequel as well. 
> 
> I was torn between adding this as a new work within the series or just adding a chapter. I made this into a series... but this is obviously just another chapter. There will be more works in the series though... once I come up with new ideas for those 😂

How do you dress for a _date_? 

Sandor stared at himself in the long mirror of his bedroom. It was difficult to really see himself since he’d made it near impossible by painting over the damned thing. His body wasn’t such a sore sight, but his face was a nightmare and he got tired of looking at it day after day.

The first time he destroyed a mirror, he’d punched his reflection in the face. It wasn’t such a bad hit, based on the way the glass exploded beneath his fist. It was a fit of fury that’d begun with hyper pacing and tears and loud music and ended with shattered glass (that _he_ had to clean up), bloodied knuckles and unsurprisingly, more tears. 

But he  needed a mirror, so he bought himself another one. And then he’d had another fit over his ugly face but he wasn’t interested in the soreness of his fist or stepping on glass chards or buying another damned mirror. Instead, he bought black paint and covered the reflection of his face, neck and a lot of his hair. 

Sandor was standing in front of the glass, three dresser drawers open and a considerable pile of shirts on the floor. He was clothed only in blue checkered boxers, analyzing his form thoughtfully for redeemable qualities. He ran his fingers softly over the muscles on his stomach, and then over his rib cage. He traced down his sides and over the slight curve of his hip. 

Would she _ like _ it? Would she even see it?

And how many men did she invite on dates? How many men _had_ she invited on dates? Perhaps his body could compete with theirs, but surely none of them had a half-burned face. It was difficult to win on that front.

It’d been three days since she’d invited him on date after the grooming. Work had resumed as usual, for life hadn’t stopped, so he’d seen her at her home. A few times, he caught her peeking over at him from the wall of the staircase. 

She even came over and sang one of her musical songs/ Granted, she wasn’t really singing it _for_ him... but it seemed coincidental after their conversation during the haircut.

Obviously Sansa had told her entire family that she was bringing him on a date because they _kept bringing it up_! Or at least, her mom and Arya kept bringing it up. 

First, Catelyn had inquired about what they were planning to do, but Sandor had no fucking idea what Sansa had planned, which made him a poor partner in that conversation.

Her mother wasn’t rude; she’d tried to give him little tips about things Sansa liked, like her favorite flowers and the cafe that she frequented on Sundays. She’d told him that Sansa loved Thai food but didn’t eat red meat and that wherever they went, she’d want to spend considerable time admiring the venue. Apparently she rarely left the house without either a journal, sketchbook or camera. 

She loved _chivalry_ , which annoyed Sandor more than a little. 

_ Oh, fuck this.  _ Sandor pulled on a pair of khakis, which were probably his best pair of pants, and a dark blue button-up. If they were going somewhere where he needed to wear khakis, Sandor didn’t want to go. Would he need to dress like this to please her? It’d be much more convenient if he knew where she was taking him.

The pants were too uncomfortable. He removed them, threw them at the wall and pulled on a dark pair of jeans. 

Did he really need to dress fancily? Sandor pulled a muted yellow t-shirt over his head, shuffled the hair away from the collar and studied his shape from a few angles. _Better_. He folded up the khakis and two button-ups and placed them in his backpack. Just in case he turned out to be underdressed.

Along with the spare outfit, he organized his own sketchbook, a varied set of charcoals and a small container of pastels into the backpack. 

Sandor chose an old pair of faded red sneakers and tied up the laces into an overlarge bow. When he thought that the outfit was suitable enough, he tousled his hair to conceal his burns at least a little, grabbed the backpack and his wallet and left. 

He made through the last few days without spending more than twenty dollars out of his pocket. No take-out, only things from the grocery store that were sufficient to get him full. 

The problem was that he wasn’t sure how expensive _dates_ were, since he’d never been on one. Catelyn said that she loved _chivalry_ , which would assumably include him paying for everything, but how much would she want? 

Sandor climbed into his car, a cheap old thing that he was able to haggle over. He’d replenished the paint and did his best to get the smells out of it, but he hoped to god that she didn’t want to take his vehicle. He could drive hers, if she wanted— but she did _not_ need to be in his car. Some of the smells just wouldn’t come out, and the _stains_...

He put the backpack in the backseat, turned on a playlist and drove to her house. 

Sandor had planned it out so that along the way, he could pick up some flowers for her like her mom suggested. The bunch he ordered included daffodils, cornflowers and orange daisies. It took about forty minutes to get the flowers and make it to her house at three. 

Sandor knocked on the door, feeling very uncomfortable standing in old jeans and dirty shoes with a bunch of flowers that looked twenty times better than he did. Perhaps the better choice would’ve been to wear the fancy clothes, and bring the comfortable outfit _in case_.

Ned opened it with an awkward smile and Sandor couldn’t stop anxiety creeping in that Sansa’s parents didn’t think he was good enough. 

Sure, Ned liked Sandor as an employee, someone who chopped lumber and moved heavy furniture— but for Sandor to go out with his oldest daughter? Absolutely not, and he couldn’t be faulted for that.  She was so far out of his realm, let alone his _league_ , that each of these nights he’d been sleepless wondering what unfortunate spell she was under to think him good enough for her time. Perhaps the balance of the universe would be restored by the end of their date. 

“Sandor,” Ned said, extending the door. “Come in,” he ushered.

Sandor walked in hesitantly, carrying the flowers that looked better than he did with trembling hands and feeling the burned side of his face itch. 

Sansa twirled out of the kitchen, her mother’s hands halfway in her hair. His heart clenched at seeing her, feeling instantly more comfortable. She was wearing a white tanked dress with tiny blue and purple flowers and she even had the heart-shaped sunglasses above a floppy sombrero. 

She glanced excitedly at Sandor as soon as she saw the bouquet he held for her. 

“Oh my gosh!” she tried to escape her mom, who was evidently fixing up her hair, and flinched in pain to get over to him. “For _me_? They’re so pretty!” 

She snatched them away from his hands and ran to get a vase, presumably. Sandor held his tongue, feeling like he was being prodded under a microscope by her parents’ gazes at him. They were being friendly enough, all smiles and small talk, but it still felt... judgmental. 

He stood between her mother and father silently, awkwardly, before Sansa reappeared and grabbed him round the arm. She’d returned with a backpack, he noticed. _Perhaps the sketchbook or camera or journal is in there._

“Bye, guys,” she said to her parents, pulling Sandor’s arm like he was a puppy. 

“Come see us when you get back,” her mom said, and Sansa shut the door. 

_Thank god_ she wanted to take her car.  He grabbed his backpack from the backseat and climbed into the passenger of her car. Her car was clean, unsurprisingly, and it smelled nice. There was an air freshener tab hanging from the mirror, a package of CDs on the floor and some miscellaneous envelopes laying around. 

“Do you want to listen to music?” Sansa asked. 

“Do you want to tell me where we’re going?”

She leaned in and cupped her hand around his ear dramatically. It seemed like she was thinking about what to say, but _she should bloody know already, shouldn’t she?_

“It’s a secret,” she whispered before pulling away and being overcome with giggles. After a moment, she plugged the aux cord into her phone and started queuing up songs. 

Sandor was permitted to play some of his old songs for her as well, peppering them into her indie music. She already knew a lot of them, which made him feel at home. In twenty minutes, they were on the highway. 

He thought about asking where they were going again, but it was kind of exciting for it to be a surprise. As long as there was no fire, he’d be fine. 

They were driving over a bridge and Sansa remarked about how she loved driving over bridges in the summertime. She inquired as to his opinions on a variety of topics: the types of weather best to drive in, what books and movies he liked, had he done _this_ or had he seen _that_. Sandor watched out the window as she drove, and leaned back comfortably into the cushiony seat. 

There was sand coming into view, and coastline. 

“Are you bringing me.. to the _beach_?”

“Maybe...” Sansa said, suddenly frozen. “Is that okay...? Do you not like the beach?”

Well, perhaps he wouldn’t strip for her in the daylight, but other than that.. it was alright. He couldn’t truly say that the beach was an unexpected venue for her to choose.

“No, the beach will do. Were you planning to swim...? I didn’t bring anything to wear in the water, and I haven’t got any towels...” 

“It’s okay,” she said. “I wasn’t planning on swimming, but I did bring a beach blanket.” 

Beach season had just begun and he hoped there wouldn’t be too many people there. Sandor wouldn’t quite... _thrive_... in a populated beach. 

Still, when she pulled into the sandy parking lot, there were only 4 vehicles in sight. Sansa hopped out of the car and by the time Sandor had gotten out himself, she’d retrieved a number of things from the trunk. 

There was a large wicker picnic basket in one hand, almost exactly as he’d expected, and a huge, patterned beach blanket overflowing the other arm. 

The trunk was still open and she gestured to a small Bluetooth stereo with her head. 

“Can you grab the speaker? And my bag as well.”

Sandor complied, and they walked deep into the beach before settling in a random spot to her liking. 

He helped her unfold the blanket and adjust the bag, basket and speaker on a few corners as weights. The day was sunny enough if they wanted to go for a swim, but not likely enough to heat the ocean. 

Sansa took off her sandals and threw them to the side before settling down on the floppy blanket. Sandor sat somewhat next to her, a few feet away, though they were both angled in a way that they faced each other and the sea. 

He could see a few people surfing and... falling off of their boards. There were also a couple of people walking along the shore. Though overall, it was pretty empty— which Sandor was more than thankful for. 

“Are you hungry?” Sansa asked, glancing at him expectantly while she worked on thebuckle of her picnic basket. 

He nodded, trying not to make it obvious that he hadn’t eaten anything today. 

She began to pull out several small containers and a large wooden artisan board. Sandor turned to take off his shoes to the sound of plastic clicking and grinding. When he threw the shoes off by hers and turned back around, she’d already assembled several foods onto the hand-crafted wooden platter. 

Sansa had arranged red grapes, raspberries and apple slices, squares of cheese and flaking bread, sliced red peppers and carrot and celery sticks. On the blanket, there was an open container of mini homemade-looking sandwich cookies covered in rainbow sprinkles and smelling like lemons. 

She was pulling out a piece of hard salami for the plate. 

“I thought you didn’t eat red meat?” 

Sansa’s skin turned rosy. “I don’t,” she said and extended the plastic box. “I brought it for you.”

The skin that covered the meat was a deep red hue and a salty smell emanated from it. It looked like it’d been cured well. It looked like some sort of fancy meat that you couldn’t find at a chain supermarket, and it made Sandor’s mouth water. 

He bit his tongue. “I don’t like salami.” Some things were worth sacrificing. What if she didn’t want to kiss him because he’d eaten the salami? Vegetarians were like that, and maybe she would be too. He wouldn’t take any chances to block himself out of another kiss. 

Sansa froze and glanced around. “You don’t have to... it’s just salami. If you like it, it’s fine. Eat it,” she extended the container. 

Sandor shook his head and with it, shook away the cravings. “It’s full of preservatives anyway.” 

She said _ok_ , and put the closed container back into the basket. 

“I brought some ranch for the veggies,” she placed a small dish full of the thick dressing in the center of the platter. “Will you have that?” 

“Yeah, of course. I just don’t really like red meat.” 

“Sandor,” she said in a tone that suggested she didn’t believe him. “It’s fine if you do.” 

“I know. It’s fine if I don’t as well, is it not?” 

Sansa shrugged. “Whatever you say.” 

She broke away for a moment to plug in her phone to the stereo, keeping her beachy tunes quiet enough so that they could hear each other as they chatted.

She tore away a grape and popped it into her mouth, then switched to a cheese-and-bread combo and then crunched on a slice of red pepper. Sandor mimicked her, following her hand when she reached for a lemon sandwich cookie. 

He bit into one: two soft lemony sugar cookies with frosting squished between. It was tangy, but sweet, and the sprinkles pressed into the frosting provided a nice change in texture.

“Did you make these?” 

“Yeah,” she said. “Do you like them?” 

“They’re delicious.” 

“Thank you! I can teach you how to make them if you want.”

Something inside him— his heart maybe? Stomach?- something jerked and jolted and felt achy, but delightful, at her offer. _Would that be a date as well?_ Baking with her in her kitchen? Her in a cute little apron, spoon-feeing him raw sugar cookie dough and cuddling on the couch while they waited for the oven timer to go off—

“Yeah.” Sandor said, nodding. “Yeah, I would love to.”

“Cool,” Sansa said with smile. She pulled out two wine glasses and then came a dark bottle.  She poured a small amount of the red liquid into a glass and handed it to him. 

“I’m not sure if you’ll like it,” she said. Sansa was explaining that it was a vintage from some vineyard in a place he’d never heard of, and she was saying that she wasn’t sure if he was going to like it, and—

He’d already downed it. Sandor hoped his teeth weren’t stained when he opened his mouth to speak. “It’s perfect. Can I have some more?”

Sansa giggled and poured them both half-filled cups. They sipped (her, slowly and he, a bit more aggressively) while they watched the tide roll in and break against the shore. The sound was a sweet background to their small talk. 

The two of them continued to pick away at the arrangement of food until there was nothing left except for leftover ranch dressing. 

“That was really good,” Sandor said. “If I knew that you were planning a picnic, I would have brought something...” 

“No, it’s okay,” she put her hand on his forearm. “It’s perfectly fine. I wanted it to be a surprise. I’m just glad that you liked it.” 

The hand that she had on him induced a set of tingles that made their rounds about his body. He pulled his arm out of her grasp slowly to hold her hand. 

Sandor moved the empty glasses and the wooden platter out from between them so that he could move a little closer to her. His head was spinning from the inhalation of the wine, and his nerves were relaxing, his skin growing hotter. Sansa reassured him by intertwining their fingers and scooching in closer to him so that their knees were touching. 

Her skin was hot to the touch and her pupils were tiny in the loud sunlight. She put one of her hands on his hip and leaned up, which is when Sandor realized she wanted a kiss from him. 

He used his free hand to grab the rim of the sombrero. “Do you mind if I.. move this?”

She nodded her consent for him to remove it. Sandor pulled away the floppy hat and with it, her heart-shaped sunglasses, and tossed the combination onto the sand beside them.

He smoothed the frizz on the top of her head with his hand, and then wove his fingers through at the base of her scalp, combing the hair back behind her ear. She emanated a lot of that fruity-sweet smell from here. Perfume maybe?— On her neck, or perhaps in her hair?

The aroma was addicting, something that he would gladly have as a candle in his house. He didn’t have any candles, though this could be a consideration. Maybe if it was perfume, she could make him a candle? No— that might be a bit too... flammable. Perhaps he could buy a bottle of the perfume and spray it around the apartment, on his blankets and against his pillow. 

It was still a mystery that she could want to touch him, but he had no protestations complying with her desires. Sandor lowered his face and pecked her lips with his, mirroring her position by laying his hand into the dip at her waist.

It was difficult for him to hold his cool. Everything was perfect. The food she’d brought for him— _god_ , those lemon cookies— the beach blanket, her flower-patterned dress and her thick, wavy red hair. 

She was _perfect_. The sunlight that exposed his disgusting face to her was perhaps less than ideal, but she hadn’t expressed repulsion yet. In fact, it seemed the opposite. Sansa only made attempts to pull him closer, to hold his cheek in her palm and stroke one of his temples. 

Sandor wanted to say things to her, sweet things, about how happy he was to be there, but he wasn’t sure about his breath in her face and he also wasn’t sure how to articulate such a feeling. There were so many things he wanted to say but words wouldn’t cut it without making him sound like a even bigger freak. 

“That feels really good,” he decided on, referring to her fingers at his temple. 

Sansa brushed through his hair, pushing it back and behind his ears, scratching and rubbing in a fashion that threatened to put him to sleep. The sunset helped in that sense as well, and the wine— both of which dehydrated him and harvested a lot of his energy. He didn’t really mind though; it wouldn’t be a bad way to fall asleep. 

A song came on that she didn’t want to hear though and she moved to change it, interrupting the flow and knocking them back into the world. 

She shook herself out briefly, and he understood because he felt the need to do it as well. 

Sansa pulled out her bag, and with it some art materials. She was saying that she brought her art supplies everywhere with her, exactly as her mom had told Sandor. He was pleased that he’d taken his sketchbook as well, even thought it was kind of embarrassing for her to see his art.Sandor’s art wasn’t so terrible, but hers was _good_... Naturally she wanted to see what else was in his sketchbook, and naturally he didn’t want to show her. He agreed to share a few of his proudest pieces, and she provided a generous amount of enthusiasm and praise. 

She seemed a little scared to show him her art as well, which made Sandor feel a bit more comfortable. Her sketchbook was littered with art just as good as the stuff on her walls. The book was even decorated on the outside with stickers: a lemon wedge that said “honey” on it, a “No Smoking!” sign, a rolling wave that said “Life is Good,” and a floppy-eared dog with its tongue sticking out. 

For a while, it seemed like it was a sketchbook full of mermaids but then it changed to a face and she flipped the page immediately. 

“Sorry,” she said. “That one is private.” 

Sansa showed him a couple of others that weren’t mermaids, but different faces of people he didn’t recognize. She flipped to a blank page eventually and changed the subject to what she should draw. 

She decided to draw the beach, in the end. Sandor let her use his chalk pastels, while she let him use her oil pastels. The texture of the oils was kind of intriguing and kind of very annoying. It was horrific to blend, it stuck completely and permanently to the paper and left an unwanted residue. 

Between staring at the beach and drawing the beach and listening to beach music, Sansa decided to wanted to go for a swim, but she wanted to wait until sunset. It hadn’t felt like long at all, but it must have been getting late because the sun was already going down. 

She folded up her art materials, giving Sandor back his pastels, and returned them to her backpack until the beach blanket was mostly cleared. 

“The sun sets so beautifully here,” Sansa said, her eyes fixed on the sky as she scooted closer to him. 

“I’ve never seen the sun set on a beach before,” Sandor said. Honestly Sandor had only been to beaches a handful of times. Too many people, too much sun. 

“What?!” she scooted to his side. “I come here really often. It’s nice even to be alone and just listen to the sound of the waves.”

The sky was getting darker relatively quickly, turning deeper shades of red and orange, pink and purple. It was hard to look away, which made it easier for him to understand her habit to _dwell_ in places like this. 

Sansa pushed herself down the blanket and tossed her bag behind her to use for a pillow. Sandor did the same, laying on his back next to her, close enough to her body to make him extremely aware of his surroundings. 

His senses were heightened even more so when she patted his left shoulder, getting him to open his arm so that they could be closer. She rested her head against his arm, curling inward towards his chest and reaching out to enlace her fingers into his right hand. 

It was difficult for Sandor to think about anything other than where her body was overlapping his, how her hair was splayed over his chest along with its sweet smell and how sweaty his hand was becoming where it was joined to hers. 

“Do you think the water’s cold?” Sansa asked after the sun had set fully and the sky was enveloped in a rich purple. The moon was a bright white ball though, providing the perfect cast of light on the ocean.

_Oh god, does she want to go swimming?_ He told her he didn’t have any idea and she untangled from him.  Sandor ran after her as she proclaimed a race to the sea. 

“Sansa!” he howled, laughing as her feet slipped and got caught in the thick, unsteady sand. She was really going for it though, leaping as far as her stride would take her. 

She was laughing as well, loudly and freely right until Sandor snatched her wrist with one hand and her waist with the other. 

“Ow!” She yelped and recoiled as he released her, holding her wrist tightly with her thumb and middle finger. 

“I’m sorry,” Sandor said, frozen as he put out his hand and gauged what was going on. And to think he’d been worried about his _breath_ earlier. What if he’d really hurt her? 

“No, it’s ok. Just wasn’t expecting you to be so strong, I guess.” 

“I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that. I grew up with a lot of roughhousing. Or should I say... ‘I grew up with a brother who treated me as a personal punching bag.’” He reached for her hand slowly, the wrist that he’d likely bruised. “Does it still hurt?” 

“No,” she upturned her lips. “I’m good.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him to the shoreline. 

The water wasn’t so cold after all. At least, not enough to deter Sansa. His bare feet dipped in and when the salt water pushed back onto the shore, it licked the ends of his jeans. 

“Are you going in?” 

Sansa looked at him, and then back at the sea. “Yeah. I want to. You don’t mind, do you?” 

Sandor shook his head and just as fast, she started undoing the tie at her back. Her dress came off rather easily, slipping past her feet and onto the sand. She picked it up and threw it roughly in the direction of their setup. 

He’d been confused about why she wanted to go out with him, and then she took off her clothes and it started to feel more and more like a dream impossibly far out of his reach. It was dark enough that he couldn’t see any small details of her skin or face, but light enough so that he could see the lace on her underwear and the mini hearts on her bra. 

Long legs and big feet and hair that went far down her back and hips that made his breath catch. She ran out and dove into the water and it made sudden sense why her sketchbook was full of mermaids. 

She came up from the water, hysterical in her adrenaline as she swam around aimlessly. “Sandor! You _have_ to come in! But— will you bring the stereo closer?” 

Sandor chuckled and ran to retrieve it along with her phone, placing the stereo safely away from the shoreline and turning it up a bit. It felt strange to take off his clothes in front of someone else, but perhaps his body was safe from her criticism in the darkness. 

He pulled off his shirt first, the yellow tee he favored so much, and then pulled the metal button of his jeans, then the zipper and then, with as little premeditation as possible, slid the denim down his legs. Only his boxers remained and he ran into the ocean without too long of a consideration. 

Sandor’s entire body submerged into the salt water and it was fucking _cold_. If he’d had an erection moments ago, it was certainly gone without a trace now. 

“Holy _shit_ ,” he growled at the icy ocean, flailing his limbs around urgently to try and produce some body heat.

Sansa just _giggled_. “Oh, it is _not_ that cold.” She swam over to grab onto his arm and then pulled him closer, their bodies touching at a few places. She wasn’t much warmer, but he had no complaints where her bare skin was concerned. 

Her hair was much darker, slicked back and rich— perhaps even more stunning soaking wet. Or maybe it was everything about her when she was soaking wet; how her skin glowed from the cold, the way that the moon’s reflection brightened her eyes, even the little droplets that fell off of the tip of her nose. It was probably everything about her in general, how _wild_ she was. 

“It’s not that cold,” he agreed, rubbing his shoulders while she held his arms. 

“I’ve got some heat to spare,” she suggested, pulling him into an embrace with one hand dipping into the hollow of his back. 

“Oh, um.. _right_ ,” Sandor said, caught between holding her with one arm and paddling with the other. 

She was kicking, which he could feel every once in a while as her nails scratched against his legs. Her skin wasn’t much warmer than his, but the sensations that her body was inducing on him certainly had a heating effect. 

She was wearing almost nothing, just a bra and some thin little underwear. He thought it would probably be better to keep his hands off of her, but she’d swam into his arms so willingly. If she was going to act like she wanted him, he wouldn’t go out of his way to resist her.

And then she splashed him, right in the face! Sansa flung herself back from him, a mess of giggles as Sandor wiped salt water from his face. 

“Sansa!” He growled, “You’re going to pay for that, you know.” She started swimming away frantically and he followed close behind. He dove under the water to gain some speed, but the truth was that he couldn’t really see her. 

Sandor came up for air, recovering as he listened for her little splashes, watched for her frame. He saw her leg jerk from the water in a stroke and snatched it, pulling her around the torso and flipping her to face him. 

“You think you’re hilarious, don’t you?” 

She squirmed in his grasp, though she was still laughing hysterically. “No I think _you’re_ hilarious,” she said breathlessly, “your face,” she pointed and then rethought her judgmental finger. “Oh.. I mean... your _expression..._ when I splashed you.”

“I know what you meant,” Sandor said, and then scooped up water into his hand to throw at her. 

“Sandor! My eye!” 

“Shit, are you okay?” He brushed her hair out of the way to see if she was legitimately hurt. 

She splashed him again and he swore. 

“Sucker!” Sansa shouted.

She turned to swim away, but he caught her again and yanked her into him. Her back was to his chest, his arm hooked around her belly. She stopped laughing instantly, going rather silent as he pressed tight against her. She clasped her hand around the one he had on her side. 

Sansa pulled her hair to one side and tilted her neck up at him. Sandor dropped his lips to her shoulder experimentally, assuming that that was what she wanted. He kissed her cold, smooth skin and her breath hitched audibly, which gave him some confidence. 

Sandor licked a trail through the salty sea-water droplets up until his tongue reached the back of her ear and he felt as she swallowed. 

“That feels... good,” she admitted, squeezing his hand. 

“Does it?”

She nodded and he allowed his teeth to scrape back and forth along her shoulder like little puppy bites when they teethed. He let his hand slide down her hip and guided it away from her skin, out into the water. 

And then he splashed her and took off. She shouted a spew of harmless threats at him. And their cycle repeated until they agreed that they were too cold to stay in any longer. 

Despite having planned the date herself, Sansa didn’t bring a spare pair of clothes or any towels. She planned to put her dress back on, but wanted to dry off first and was too cold to sit around and wait in her underwear. The truth is that she could’ve used the beach blanket, but it was covered in sand and Sandor wasn’t cruel enough to make her scrub herself with it. 

He gave her the extra pair of clothes he had so that she could rub off the excess water from her skin. It’s not like anything terrible could happen to his khakis and dress shirt from mere salt water, could it? 

When she’d dressed again, they carried the speaker and picnic supplies and the backpacks back to Sansa’s car. The drive passed quicker than Sandor would’ve liked for it to, flying by as he finger-drummed on the dashboard to the little bird’s singing. Unfortunately, they found themselves back in the driveway of her house. 

Sansa shut off the engine and turned towards him. She wasn’t saying anything- was he supposed to let himself out of the car now? Sandor grabbed onto the door handle but she put her hand on his wrist. 

Except... the lights were on and he could see that where’d he’d snatched her before, a dark ring was beginning to form. 

“ _Shit_ ,” he said, reaching for her hand to inspect the harm he’d done her. “I didn’t mean to,” he started, trying to find appropriate words. 

“What?” She seemed to notice the bruise for the first time. “Oh, it’s fine, really. I bruise easily, it’s not you. I swear.”

Sandor traced her wrist with two fingers. It was probably the truth, but he still felt terrible about hurting her. “I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that. I won’t do it again.”

“No— _Sandor_ ,” she laced their fingers together and stroked his knuckles with her free hand. “We were just having fun. You have nothing to worry about. It was just fun.” 

Sansa leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek, holding his dry hands tightly. The invisible mark that her lips left on his face were a pleasure that he didn’t expect to treasure so much. 

And then she pulled him into a tight hug over the middle compartment. Every time she touched him, all Sandor could think about was how long it would be before she withdrew. It made him terribly anxious, stressing miserably about when she would let him go. 

“I had a lot of fun with you today,” Sansa said into his neck. 

He nodded, with a gulp, against her shoulder, his heart growing louder and slower in his chest. How would he go back to his apartment like this? Did she _really_ have a good time? Or-- did she want to see him again? Did she want another _date_? 

She asked if he wanted to talk later, but quickly took it back for the sake of tonight being ‘too soon.’

“Tonight isn’t too soon for me,” Sandor told her.

It seemed as though he’d been humorous, because she started giggling again and a blush appeared in her cheeks. 

“Good,” she said. “Then I’ll call you later.” 

They got out of the car and Sansa returned Sandor’s backpack to him. She hugged him once more to say goodnight, but before she could let him go, Sandor tilted her head back and kissed her on the lips. Was this what it was like to ‘have’ someone? Free kisses all the time? 

He let her go and she frolicked up the driveway towards her front door. 

“Goodnight!” Sansa called out with her fingers on the handle. 

“Goodnight,” said Sandor, and climbed into his car, turning on the audio and beginning the route to his apartment. 


	3. A Little... Clingy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you guys know when you start dating someone and all you want to do is be around them constantly and kiss them constantly? The honeymoon phase, yada yada. Well... that’s what this is. 
> 
> Also: In the last chapter, the ominous “that sketch is personal”— that WILL be making an appearance, just not yet.

“And the part where you tripped in the sand— and almost fell on your face,” Sansa paused to lose her breath as she cracked up over the phone. “Oh my gosh, it was _hilarious_.”

She couldn’t even say _oh my god_. 

Sandor laid in the center of his bed, staring at the ceiling with the phone against his ear as he failed to stifle a smirk. 

“I’m glad that you were so amused at me almost rolling my ankle,” he responded, wrinkling and unwrinkling his toes. 

“I’m sorry,” she said but Sandor could still hear the goofy grin in her voice. 

“No, please,” he said. “Be my guest. Anything else that you found hilarious?”

“Your face,” Sansa replied. “Your face is hilarious!”  It was... some _joke_...? 

_Oh_. _You and my brother, both, little bird._

“Oh crap, I’m so sorry,” she said after no response. “I didn’t mean it like that at all... It’s just... a _joke_... you know? Do you know that joke? That doesn’t matter, I shouldn’t have, I... _shit_.” 

Forget the crack about his ugly face; _shit? The little bird?_ The poster girl for manners? 

“Was that a swear, little bird? You?”

“Yeah,” she said dismissively, her profanity obviously not being her biggest concern. “I’m really sorry... I’m so, so sorry...”

“Sansa,” he said slowly, “...it’s fine. I know what you meant.” 

There was a moment of silence. 

“Sansa?” 

“Um... yeah. Okay.”

Shit. He couldn’t help wondering if there was something else he could’ve said to make her feel better. He really didn’t care about the joke. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t had the burns for almost two decades. It wasn’t as if people hadn’t said worse. 

“So,” Sandor said. “You know what I thought was funny? Your face when I threw that sand patty at you. You couldn’t pay me to erase that memory from my head.” 

There was a faint chuckle over the line, but she didn’t say anything. He could tell that she was still thinking about her dumb joke.

“You know what else I’d not erase?” Sandor asked, wondering which delightful memory he should propose to her. There was the wine tasting, sketchbook swapping, the music that they traded; there was the kissing, the cuddling when they watched the clouds, the sight of her figure in the moonlight when she took off her dress. Sandor took a breath. “Well... any of it, actually. I won’t forget any of it.” 

He perked his ear but he couldn’t hear anything on the line that time. 

“Everything was perfect,” Sandor added quietly. 

Another moment of silence passed and he was nervous that he’d made things worse, made her more uncomfortable. It wouldn’t be the first or last time he’d royally fucked things up. 

“I had a lot of fun with you, Sandor,” she admitted. “I wasn’t sure how long I should wait to schedule new plans to hang out because, well... I guess that I miss you already.” 

_Oh... well, shit_. This time it was his turn not to say anything, until she prompted his name. “Me too,” Sandor spat out.

“Do you think that maybe... tomorrow... you could be free? I don’t know if my dad has anything planned for you, but I don’t work on Wednesdays. Actually, is that too soon? I’m really sorry, I don’t want to be annoying. I guess that I’m a little... clingy.”

“No,” Sandor replied instantaneously. “Don’t apologize for that. I want you to be. _Clingy_ , I mean. I do have to work tomorrow. I have to pick up some things at the hardware store for your dad and he wants me to help him fix that broken chair on the porch, but we can spend time together afterwards. I’ll be at your house anyway.”

“Right,” Sansa said in that voice that let him know she was smiling. “We can watch a movie and eat more of those cookies that I made.” 

“That sounds perfect.” Sandor glanced at the alarm clock on his nightstand. 23:38. Of course he picked the only clock in the store that displayed 24-hour time. 

He still had to take a shower, do the dishes— but none of it was more enticing than talking to her. Even when neither of them had anything to say and just spent moments on a quiet line, it was comfortable. It felt better than being alone. 

“I can’t wait to see you,” she said. “What time will you be here? What time do you think you’ll be finished repairing?” 

“I’ll be there at two, and I’ll probably be finished working at like... five? Any movie you were thinking of in particular?” 

“I was thinking a horror movie. I like slasher films, but I can never watch them alone.”

“That’s fine by me,” Sandor said. Honestly, anything was fine by him. She was teaching herself Italian, right? If she wanted to watch a film in Italian, he’d be more than agreeable as long as he got to spend time with her. 

He did like horror movies though. They did a good job at letting him believe that there were other people with burned faces that could be considered uglier than him. 

“Okay, cool. Sandor, I actually have to go.”

“Oh. Okay... I’ll see you tomorrow, Sansa.”

“Can’t wait!” There was an awkward moment in which neither of them said anything and eventually she said _bye_ and hung up. 

*****

“Sandor, what is all of this? Did you get everything that I asked you to get?” 

Sandor turned to see Ned holding a bunch of dollar bills: the money that he was given to purchase the supplies for the repair. 

“Oh. They didn’t carry the drill bit that you wrote down but they gave me this one instead. It’s a little smaller. It wasn’t what you asked me to buy, so I used my own money.” 

“No, you didn’t have to do that,” Ned said. “Here, how much was it?” 

Sandor dug into his pocket for the receipt. “Uh.. it was...”

Ned folded up the bills and handed it over to Sandor. “Just take the rest of it.”

Sandor shook his head. “No, really— It wasn’t that much.” _Where the hell is that damned receipt?_

“You’re a good lad,” Ned laughed, “but I gave you the money for a reason: to buy the bit. I don’t want you paying out of your pocket again. Keep it.”

Sandor took the money and put it in his wallet. “Thank you.”

“Now put that bit in, will you? And grab those screws.” 

It took less time than expected to repair the chair. Ned’s taste in music wasn’t so terrible, though Sandor preferred the little bird’s choices. 

Speaking of Sansa, _someone_ had tipped off Ned that they would be having a movie date later that evening and so he was eager to let Sandor off for the day instead of filling the rest of his time with tasks. 

Sansa didn’t disturb him during his work or even poke her head out (that he noticed), but once he walked inside, she was there to greet him with a hug. 

She was dressed in loose, high-waisted jean shorts and a cropped white sweater that was delightfully soft against Sandor’s bare arms. She squeezed him around the waist, locking her arms around him so tightly that he didn’t dare try to break the embrace. 

Her mother turned the corner while he was still locked inside Sansa’s arms. 

“Sandor,” Catelyn said. Her voice was cheerful, though at hearing it, Sansa jerked to his side. “How are you?” 

He gave a few words about his day, but obviously she wasn’t asking out of interest. 

“Sansa? A word?” The two of them disappeared while Sandor fingered the spines of old books on the shelf. 

There was a glossy photo of a younger Sansa wedged between a book and the wall of the shelf, which Sandor took out to inspect. The little bird was smiling up at the camera with big eyes, a pink flower in her hair. 

She wasn’t wearing anything aside from an orange pair of underwear— _no_ , that’s a bathing suit bottom— a long flower necklace and a dark pair of sunglasses. There was a pink pair of floaties on her arms. It sort of... made his chest feel warm. 

“She just wanted to know—“ Sansa came in holding a little plate of her lemon sandwich cookies.

Sandor turned around, holding the glossy photo face-out for her to see. “I want this picture.”

“Sandor!” Sansa yelped, putting the plate down and trying to snatch it out of his hands, where he was holding it too far above her head. 

“I _need_ this. Just let me take a picture of it and I’ll give it back.”

“No! I’m _naked_ in that photo! Give it back now!”

He relented, lowering the picture slowly but keeping it in his grasp. “Oh, _calm_ _down_. You’re not even naked! And y ou were what, five, when this was taken?” 

She glared at him. “ _Six_.” 

“Sansa, it’s practically a baby picture. You don’t have anything to be ashamed of. It’s adorable.”

She took the photo away and examined it. “Ugh. Fine. You can take a picture of it if you really want to, but only because you said I was adorable.” 

“It wasn’t a ploy,” Sandor said, putting the photograph back onto the shelf and moving to pull her back into the hug that got interrupted. 

Sansa stopped him with a hand on his chest. “Are you hungry? I hope so, because I just ordered a veggie pizza.”

Sandor nodded. He was hungry more often than not. 

“My mom will let us know when it’s here. Are you ready to watch the movie?”

He nodded and she led him up the stairs with the plate of cookies. 

Sandor’d thought that they’d be watching the film in maybe, say, her living room, but it certainly wasn’t a let down to be alone with her. Her door opened and it became evident that the little bird had planned this out more than he’d thought one needed to plan to watch a movie.

The curtains were closed, so the only illumination was from the Christmas lights above her headboard. The bed looked like a nest: made up with half a dozen fluffy blankets and just as many pillows. The same bottle of wine that they’d dove into on their picnic was on Sansa’s bedside table.

Sansa walked over to her nightstand to set down the cookies.

There was a projector shining a large movie screen page on the wall opposite the bed. _Scream 2. Gotcha_.

Sandor crept over to her, keeping close behind her back. He swept her hair to the side, leaning close into her ear. “Wanna play a little game?” He tried to use his most raspy, scratchy voice. 

“Sandor!” She spun around, pushing his chest. “You creep!”

He put his hands up, palms facing her, and shrugged. “ _You_ chose the movie.” 

“But I didn’t choose to invite a _serial killer_ into my room.” Sansa froze and dramatically looked around. She cupped her mouth with her hands and whispered loudly, “Are _you_ a serial killer? I might have to ask you to leave.” 

Sandor checked his pockets and pulled out the contents. “Wallet, keys, chapstick...... one dollar and eighty-four cents... Nope, no knives.” He pointed to his feet. “I can take off my shoes, too, if you want to make sure there’s nothing _questionable_ in there.” 

Sansa took the chapstick and his wallet, gave them both a once-over and put them back into his pockets for him, scraping his thigh through the denim in the process. 

“I believe you. You can stay.” She pulled him down by the neck to meet her lips. “But if you try anything funny, you’ll have to go. And obviously you’ll have to take off your shoes if you expect to lay in my bed with me.” 

Sandor gulped and turned away. Lay in her bed with her, he thought. _Obviously_ they were going to sit in her bed, but the way she’d said it...

Sansa broke away to retrieve a plastic bag from beside her closet and pulled out a lump of blue plaid fabric. 

“I think I know what you’re going to say, but... we _can’t_ have a movie night without comfy pjs. Your clothes are _not_ suitable for this event.”  She extended her pile of cloth.

“You bought me pajamas?” Sandor examined the flannel nightwear— a long button-up and an extra baggy pair of fluffy pants held on an elastic waistband. 

“And I know that it’s not exactly winter anymore,” she glanced at the fan in motion on her ceiling, “but I wear long pjs year-round...”

“You bought me these pajamas?” 

“Yeah... I wasn’t sure what size you would be.” She retrieved the bag again and pulled out a second pair. “I bought myself some, too, so we could match.” She smiled like a child, blushing from ear to ear. 

It was hard not to admit that he loved her right then. 

Instead, Sandor said, “You are fucking adorable.” He pulled her into his arms. 

“I hoped that you would like them...” 

“I do.” 

Sansa went to change in the bathroom while Sandor changed in her room. He left his t-shirt on and put the flannel top over it, leaving it unbuttoned. They were a bit big, but that was the point, wasn’t it? He put his pants on top of his shoes in the corner of her room. 

She emerged in the flannel nightwear looking half irresistible before she dove into her comfy nest of a bed. Before he could climb in beside her, Sansa made a point of insisting that he be on top of certain blankets and under others. She’d obviously arranged them in some very specific way that he’d not caught onto. 

He complied, scooting down the bed to lay almost fully. She was quick to snuggle up against him, reaching for the remote and turning on the movie. As the beginning credits were coming on, she reached for the plate of cookies and put it onto his midriff as though he were a lap table. 

_Whatever._ She laid her head on his chest and he got to put his arm around her, so he considered himself a very lucky lap table. 

The cookies were just as tasty as the first time he’d had them, and naturally she wanted to wash it down with the wine. She popped out the cork and extended the bottle to him, staring expectantly. 

“So eager for me to get drunk, are you? You’re not planning on _taking advantage_ of me...” Sandor teased with a skeptical glare. 

Sansa blushed. “I was being _polite_ ,” she explained. “I didn’t want to be rude by taking the first sip.” 

He narrowed his eyes at her. “That’s what they all say.” 

They sipped the wine directly out of the bottle, nibbling on the cookies. But soon enough into the movie when murders began to occur on-screen, Sansa flinched, knocking a cookie off of the plate and onto the floor and they decided that the snacks should go back onto the nightstand. 

After that was settled, Sansa grabbed his hand and squeezed it tightly every time the killer would pursue their prey. She curled her knee up, digging her toes into his shin almost painfully every time the phony knife would draw fake blood. 

It was shocking, even though Sandor knew it was fake. He couldn’t help but cringe as well, jerking his leg against her or even jumping slightly in the bed. 

“Don’t worry,” Sansa said, pulling him into her arms. “I’ll keep you safe.” She could hardly keep a straight face between her general goofy attitude and the wine that had supported her lightheartedness. 

He allowed her to wrap him up in her hold, tucking into her side and laying his head against her shoulder. 

“I’m sure you will,” said Sandor, staring through the movie’s projection as he curled around his little bird. 

He heard _Sansa, the pizza’s here!_ from downstairs, and obviously Sansa did, too, because she rolled out of the bed and went to fetch it. 

Sandor sat up and resituated and in an instant, she was back with the box of pizza. 

“I didn’t get any plates. Do you mind eating out of the box?” 

Sandor shook his head. When he ate at home, he only dirtied dishes when he had to. No need to give himself more work. 

She nibbled on one slice in the time it took him to finish two and start a third. 

“Oh my gosh,” Sansa said. “I didn’t know you were so hungry!” 

Sandor shrugged. When he was _hungry_ enough, he could finish a whole pizza. 

They were able to finish off half of it together and when they were sated, Sandor folded the box and put it on the floor. After washing it down with more wine and a cookie each, they got comfy again and cuddled up to each other. 

Some teenage girl onscreen was getting chased up a flight of stairs, screaming in the most annoying way when the little wolf opened the door and poked her head in. 

“Arya!” Sansa shouted, sitting up. Sandor scrambled to right himself as well. She reached for the remote and paused the movie.

“What are you watching? And what is... _he_ doing here?” She came further into the room and screwed up her face at Sandor. 

“He’s here because he’s my _boyfriend_. We’re watching _Scream 2_. Now get out of my room!” 

_Her_ _boyfriend?_ _Oh_. It took difficulty not to appear just as surprised as Arya. 

“Ew! _Him_? He’s gross!” 

Sansa rushed over to her, trying to physically remove her from the room. 

“Arya, you’re being _rude_ , he’s _right there_ ,” she said in a loud whisper. “Get the hell out!” 

The little wolf ran out of the room with a fury and Sansa locked the door behind her. 

“I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable by calling you my boyfriend. I thought it would be the easiest way to get her to leave.” 

She climbed back onto her side of the bed, briefly kneading the covers to her satisfaction. 

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” Sandor said. “I actually kind of... liked it.”

“You liked what?” 

“Um.. I liked you calling me your... _boyfriend_.” 

“You did?”

Sandor nodded, playing with his fingers. 

“Oh... I liked it, too,” Sansa said. 

He looked up at her, seeing that the reflection of the movie screen was in her eyes. It was paused on the serial killer in his black cloak and gaunt white mask, holding onto a bloody knife. The mask was the most profound reflection in her pupils. 

Sandor let himself lean in for a kiss, but instead Sansa gripped him under the arms and pulled him over her. He tumbled clumsily and rolled to the side, their limbs in a puddle. 

Sansa nudged her knee between his legs and slipped her hands under the flannel on his back, over his scorching skin. She dug her fingers very shallowly under the waistline of his pants to bring him flush against her. 

Sandor paused. This was... starting to become, to his utmost fucking displeasure, more than he could handle. He was trying to think of a way to get around that miserable fact when she caught onto his trepidation.

“Oh... I’m sorry,” Sansa started to pull her hands out of his pants but he reached around to keep them still.

“No,” he reached out to her. “I don’t want you to stop.” He didn’t; he absolutely did _not_ want her to stop. 

She smiled and pulled his bottom lip between her teeth. There was a point where it almost hurt, but between her hands squeezing him and her thigh against his erection, the discomfort converted into pleasure and Sandor released an involuntary moan. 

He’d never kissed anyone like this and didn’t want it to show by being hesitant— but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t know how this really worked and could only follow along after her. 

She seemed to trade off his top and bottom lips to kiss them individually, first inviting his upper into her mouth and then returning it to tend the lower one. He tried his best to do the same, but every now and then she would bite down and he didn’t want to risk biting her to the point of blood. 

Sansa pulled a hand out of his pants so that she could comb his hair behind his ear. It was getting in the way of their kissing. Maybe he should’ve cut it all off when he had the chance. _Would she like that...?_ She did say that he looked good with his length, but now it was creating a conflict between the flow in which their lips moved. 

While he was contemplating cutting off his hair for her convenience, her knee slid over his hard-on, whether on purpose or on accident he wasn’t sure. 

_ Oh... um... fuck.  _

Sandor froze and glanced up at her eyes. Her features were so innocently relaxed, even as her leg rubbed against him through his clothes. 

Even if he knew what to do to her in return to inspire this same feeling, Sandor couldn’t do anything except lay his head against her chest. She had him weak: eyes half shut and mouth open like a drooling dog. Only, thankfully he was able to keep himself from drooling. A miracle, on his part.

He hadn’t... expected it to feel so different when someone else was doing it for him. He’d become well acquainted with his sex over the last lonely decade, but now _she_ was becoming acquainted with it and the sensations were so incredibly overwhelming. 

Sandor lifted his leg up slightly to give her more room. His dick had been sliding between her leg and his own in a way that was bordering uncomfortable, but his adjustment did some work to solve it. He allowed his shin to rest very gently against the thigh she was pleasuring him with. 

She wasn’t even touching him, really, not his skin at least. Wasn’t even doing all that much at all. She just rocked him back and forth on her leg, pulled him against her body tightly by the ass. 

“Oh _god_ , that feels good,” Sandor said, wrapping an arm around her back. 

Sansa drew her lips to his, but he didn’t have the capacity to truly kiss her back. His lips moved half-heartedly in and out of her determined ones as she pushed him towards euphoria. 

And then her phone rang. Like, a call. Someone was calling her. Right now. It took a minute to register that fact.

Sansa groaned and began to turn away from him, her instrument of pleasure pulling from his knees. 

_No_ , he wanted to say, but the truth was that the timing was probably good anyway. If she’d kept at it, he would end up finishing off in his underwear and soiled the brand new pants she’d gotten him. And it would mean that for at least the next hour, he’d be sitting in a mess of his own secretions and that thought was obviously unappealing. 

While she exasperatedly answered her phone call, Sandor caught her attention to gesture that he was going to the bathroom.

“I’ll be right back.” With that, he scrambled out of the bed and went the bathroom as fast as he could to honor the declaration.

It certainly felt dirtier in there— somehow worse than at her hair salon— fisting his dick into a handful of tissues while the girl of his dreams waited for him in her bed. At the hair salon, it was just masturbating in a public bathroom— which was frowned upon, of course— but here, this was someone’s _house_. _Her_ house. The house that he _worked_ at. 

“Oh, fuck _me_ ,” Sandor cursed under his breath, squeezing himself frantically. 

Well. It was either here and now or blue balls back in her bedroom. 

He couldn’t stop thinking about the way she groped his ass, how the added pressure felt better than he thought it would. He wondered how it would feel if she held him like that when he was inside of her. He wondered if he would be lucky enough that she’d have even the _slightest_ interest in doing some the dirty things that he’d seen women do in porn videos. 

The truth was that he’d be lucky if she didn’t slap him across the unburnt side of his face at even the suggestion of the vile acts. 

_ What a disgusting piece of shit.  _

Sandor threw away the soiled pile of tissues and washed his hands. 

When he entered her room again, she’d covered back up under the blankets and was laying very comfortably as the sheriff and a group of townies ran around the streets to find the killer. Honestly, he’d forgotten all about the movie. 

“Was it something important?” Sandor asked. 

“No. Just someone messing with me.”

As soon as he settled back into the bed, Sansa curled against his side. He was thankful that she made the move, since he wouldn’t have done it himself. She bent one knee over him, into the narrow between his own legs and rested her hand on his stomach. Her head was against his chest and that lovely smell that enveloped her came with it, right under his nose. 

Sandor embraced her over the sound of screams on the television. 

She pulled him by the side so that he would turn to her and hugged him tightly around the waist. This time, she didn’t put her leg between him, so he thought he’d test it out himself. Sandor nudged at the dip between her legs and when she opened them, he wiggled his knee between. Even through the flannels, she was radiating a heat that made his eyelids heavy. 

In return, Sansa bent her outer knee over his thigh, cradling his hip with her leg. He’d thought that it was incredible when she’d let him hump her thigh, but _this_ , this was an intimacy that he wasn’t aware of. Nobody did this in porn. 

He wasn’t even aware that a person could feel like this from someone else’s touch, especially not this kind of touch. This felt like something so innocent that it might even be done platonically. Could _everyone_ produce these sensations? Had everyone been feeling this warmth all along? Was that just another thing he’d been left out on for all these years? Or was it just her, his little bird, that was capable of making a man feel as such? 

The longer they stayed wrapped up, the more heat he felt bubbling beneath his skin. It was energetic, almost. Not the sort of energy that made him want to run laps, but an energy that he felt he could hold onto for longer than that. Energy that would be useful in the future, when he had to do things that made him uncomfortable. Even little things, like having an unpleasant conversation with his landlord. 

Being around someone so positive, well, when it wasn’t annoying, it made him feel... good. Helplessly, delightfully, warmly good. He felt _very_ close to happy when she was around, and it only grew and grew until it threatened to rip something out of him. He clung to the assumption that maybe if she held his hand and called him things like her ‘boyfriend’, he might have a chance at achieving a state of happiness. 

_Is that possible? To be happy for a long period?_ Sandor wasn’t sure. He’d only ever achieved momentary comfort, and even that was almost exclusive to the satisfaction of fucking his hand. Actually, that’s not true. _This_ was happiness. Being with her was the only experience that crossed the bridge from contentment to bliss. 

“Are you okay?” Sansa asked in a low voice, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You’re shaking.” 

_Shaking?_ He hadn’t noticed. Sandor’s toes started to tingle, a cold tingle that travelled up and numbed him everywhere. 

It became obvious that the movie, including the credits, had ended. Sandor wondered whether or not the serial killer had been caught. 

“The movie wasn’t _that_ scary,” she said with a giggle. 

He tried to come up with a witty response, to at least cut the tension, but he was frozen to his core. She seemed to notice that his shaking persisted, because she combed his hair behind the ear and gripped him tighter, squeezing him steady. 

Suddenly Sandor felt very detached from himself, and from her. He was like a dead fish in the bed. What was he even doing here? The events of the night didn’t make sense. The entire fucking week didn’t make sense. _Happiness? Fuck that,_ that wasn’t for someone like him. 

First a kiss, then a date, and now this? She couldn’t possibly _want_ him. No one ever had, no one ever would and she would _certainly_ not be the one to break that fact. Was someone playing some sort of trick on him? Or was she just an idiot? They were both idiots. 

“Sandor,” she whispered. “Shh, I’m right here.” 

Sandor raged at a tear caught in his lid, trying to intimidate it back into his skull, though it defied him and dripped down his cheek and onto hers. 

_No! Shit._

“I’m sorry,” he said, wiping the water off of her cheek and _choking_ because the admission made him even more insecure about his tears. 

She was obviously confused and probably annoyed at his immaturity for crying in her arms like a boy when she’d wanted a man. He expected her to yell at him for being so childish, or at least tell him to get out of her bed and gather his wits in the bathroom. 

Every fucking time that it was important for him to keep his emotions at bay— Why couldn’t he just keep it in when it actually _counted_? There was the rest of his fucking life to cry _alone_ in the comfort of his own bed, but here, _she_ was here! He’d never had a girlfriend before, but he’d assumed that women weren’t exactly won over by pitiful, half-burned beasts who cried in front of people. 

Every second felt like a year while he waited for her to slap him back into reality, to remind him that crying openly like this wasn’t okay. 

Tears slipped furiously down his face and she _still_ didn’t shove him away, which drove him further into anticipation. Where was the scolding for his inappropriate behavior? Where was the disgust that he had lost himself in front of her? 

Sansa just kept her arms around him, unmoving. _God, was she uncomfortable? That was likely it._ She was so _polite_ , she probably didn’t understand how to be rough with him, to kick a man like him out of her bed when she didn’t want him there anymore. 

Sandor unwrapped himself from her, trying to detangle himself from her embrace. 

“Sandor, what are you doing...? What happened?”

He climbed off the bed and it took a moment to reorient himself because his legs had fallen asleep and his head was pounding from dehydration. He looked around for his shoes in the dark. 

“Sandor, are you okay?” Sansa had gotten out of the bed as well and she started walking up to him. Was this the part where she was going to hit him? She hadn’t even laughed at him yet; it was all so unfamiliar. 

“I have to go,” he said, finally finding his shoes and pulling the laces out to stuff one foot in. 

She tried to brush his hair behind his ear with her hand, but Sandor shoved it away. He didn’t even bother lacing his shoes. He knew he probably looked like a dumbass in those damned pajamas, but he needed to leave, so he groped around for his discarded jeans. He tried his best to keep from sobbing, but he was powerless to stop the tears. 

“Sandor, I... I don’t want you to leave like this.”

He tried to open the door, but it was locked, which gave her the opportunity to snatch his hand and turn him to face her. 

Sandor let out a sigh and kept his glance on the window across from him. He was nearly a foot taller than her and yet she didn’t feel intimidated at all. 

“Please, Sandor. Was it _me_?”

He held his breath when she put her hand on his stomach. 

“No.” 

“Are you going to be okay driving home?” 

“I’ll be fine.” 

They were both frozen until Sansa moved in and locked her arms around him more tightly than he thought she was capable of. Sandor was unable to reciprocate the hug and hold onto the remains of his stability, so he stood motionless as she embraced him.

_No laughing, no hitting, and now_ this? _What the hell is going on?_ His body was tingling in several places. 

Eventually she let go. “I’m going to call you later.” 

_ Later? How much later?  _

“Unless you prefer that I called you tomorrow,” Sansa said. 

Sandor hesitated again. His stomach really hurt and he wanted to throw up. It probably wasn’t because he’d had one too many cookies. 

“I’ll call you later, and if you don’t pick up, I’ll call you in the morning. Is that okay?” 

He nodded quickly before unlocking the door and rushing out of the house. 


	4. Together... okay?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This chapter is sprinkled with more depression. What can I say? It’s Pisces season. But in my defense, it’s also sprinkled with cuddling? And pad thai. 
> 
> I was hoping to get it out before midnight on the tenth but it didn’t work out. Instead, it’s 2 AM on the eleventh, AKA my birthday! Yay! Now sleep. 
> 
> Happy reading! The next chapter will be the last for part one if everything goes to plan.

The phone got to the fourth ring while Sandor stared idly as if vibrated on his dining table. He was going to let it go to voicemail, knowing that she would probably hold herself to the promise of calling him in the morning, but when he went to turn the phone over, he found that he couldn’t let the call pass. He didn’t want to be thinking about her all night, wondering if he should’ve answered it or wishing he had someone to talk to. 

While he was well into the route back to his flat, his phone had beeped. When he glanced down to see who it was from, he saw that it was an attachment from the little bird. Despite the half dozen _don’t text and drive!_ signs along the highway, Sandor timed glances between processing his phone screen andthe road ahead. 

He put in his combination and selected _ok_ when asked to load the attachment. 

When the image popped up, it was a nicely cropped picture of her in her floaties and little sunglasses. It was the photo on her living room bookshelf that she wouldn’t let him keep for himself. 

Sandor turned it into her contact photo. Sansa would not be happy about it, but she would have to make do. 

Now, as he sat in a cheap dining chair with crappy apartment lighting watching his phone insistently glow with her shameless six-year-old self, Sandor succumbed. He was still in her pajamas, for god’s sake. He pushed on the green check mark button and the ringing ceased. 

“Hi,” he said, trying not to sound like he’d been sitting at the table for thirty-seven minutes waiting for her to ring him. 

“Sandor,” she replied, confirming the syllables in her sing-song voice and he was reminded of how good it felt to hear his name on her lips. “Do you feel any better?” 

_Define better. Like, less depressed?_ Like in the past hour he’d developed a new meaning to life? Like in the past hour all of his insecurities had been magically dissolved? _No_ , he didn’t feel better. 

“Eh.” Sandor knew that the reply was less than participatory, but unlocking his mind for her wasn’t an option, even if he wanted to. 

“Do you think you can tell me.. what happened?” 

_ Well, it all started when I was born.  _ “Just happens sometimes.” 

“What does?” 

“Um...” There were so many things that she didn’t know. It would take many painful hours to explain all of it to her and just so, everything _relatively_ explanatory of the situation was clogging up his throat. “I don’t know.” 

Sansa sighed over the line. “Sandor. I just want to help. If you tell me, then maybe we can go through it together. If it was something that I did then I need to know so that I can apologize properly.” 

She just didn’t understand how much she was asking. _Maybe we can get through it together,_ he replayed her sing-song voice in his head. _No, we_ can’t ‘get through it together.’

Obviously she didn’t know what she was asking, so that he couldn’t fault her for. She had no capacity for the bedtime story horrors he could tell her. 

_ Oh, why is my face burned, Sansa? Because when I was seven my brother bent me into a fire pit and roasted me like a fucking marshmallow.  _

_God_ , she acted like they weren’t even there. Didn’t the scars mean anything to her? It’s not like there was just one or two on his cheek, a little scratch on his jaw— they were covering half of his fucking face. And they covered that same half of his neck, and narrowed out down the shoulder. 

Sansa never once asked him about them. She never _once_ touched them. From what he could observe, she never even fucking _looked_ at them. The only time she’d even verbally acknowledged them was when she’d made that crack about his face being funny. _Oh yeah, just_ hilarious. 

“Nothing you can do,” Sandor resigned while his mind raged at him. 

She didn’t really have anything to say about that. 

He leaned on his elbows, the phone opened and on the table in front of him. “It’s nothing that you did.”

“Okay, that’s good I guess. But that’s not the whole point. The point is that I don’t want you to be struggling all by yourself.”

“I’m used to it.” 

_Shit_. Sandor shot back upright. _That wasn’t supposed to come out_. He’d been trying to _eliminate_ her flow of questions, not give her more. 

Sansa didn’t say anything, surprisingly. He was sure that she’d be questioning what his ominous admission meant. 

“I just meant that...” Words, phrases, strange mumblings to let her know that everything was okay even though it most definitely wasn’t. Anything that would guarantee survival of her new position in his life. “It’s just that... Well...” Sandor took a deep breath in, curling his hand under the lip of the wooden table and trying to force a thick finger into one of the screw holes. “I’ve always been on my own, even when I still lived with... my brother... and my dad. No one’s ever wanted to be with me when... _No_ , I mean... No one’s ever wanted to help me _get through_ things... I’ve always just done it by myself, you know? I don’t know how to let you _help_ me. I don’t know what you could possibly do to _help_.” 

Sandor couldn’t hear a single thing on the other end and he got very anxious that he’d been too honest. _Fuck me. This is what I get. I shouldn’t have opened my fucking mouth, goddamnit._

Better yet, he should’ve waited until tomorrow! She said she would call him in the morning and he was all too familiar with what the nighttime did to his senses. He should’ve just waited until tomorrow. He should’ve poured his feelings down the channel with a few shots and slept off the damned stupor. _God, where’s the vodka anyway?_ He’d be needing it soon enough. 

_I shouldn’t have opened up to her like that._ She didn’t deserve all of those emotions to be thrown on top of her, he knew— the weight was only supposed to be his _._ Sansa wasn’t ready for familiarization with his _years_ of pain, and neither was whatever relationship they had between them. _God_ , would she want to see him again? Was this the part where she hung up? And tomorrow would her father call and let him go from his commitment? 

A few small sounds reappeared over Sansa’s line. Background noises that he hadn’t noticed from before it went blank. Had she been muted? “Um... Sandor?” 

_ Please. Please, please, please.  _

Her voice was _not_ reassuring. She was going to end whatever budding had formed between them, Sandor knew. This was it. He wanted to rip his stupid phone apart. He probably would when the call was over. And then he’d scream— uncaring of the surrounding floors’ residents— walk out of his apartment and rage all the way to the liquor store. _Where in this fucking hell is the vodka?_ What sad episode had he wasted it on when he was going to need it so much more after this? 

Sandor couldn’t even bring himself to answer her over the goddamned phone. The sooner he replied, the sooner she would say something like, ‘You’re too sad for me. I don’t think I want to see you anymore. Goodnight.’ She’d likely say his name again as well, in that way that always sounded like _you’re mine_. The way that made him feel comfortably possessed by her, safely caged— protected. _Goodnight, Sandor._ She’d throw his heart right back into the trash can she’d found it in and he’d hope to god that he’d never wake up. She hadn’t spoken again, and neither had he... but still Sandor couldn’t fucking breathe. 

He remembered just last week when he was sitting in her styling chair, staring at her angelic face in the mirror while she measured both sides of his mane. And just yesterday, how she’d taken her clothes off and lured him into the water like a siren and then maniacally splashed him right in the eyes. And just tonight when she’d promised to protect him and then their bodies had tangled so closely that for a few hours, she’d felt like a part of him. A missing piece that he hoped he would never lose again. A missing piece that he _was_ going to lose because she was going to abandon him, and _soon_ for that matter. 

It’d been more than a month since they’d met, just a few days of spending time together. And the thought of her removing herself from his life was more than he could take. For the past two days, she was his best friend on the planet, the girl who broke the record without competition for how many times he could think about someone in an hour. The angel that blessed the earth with her heart-shaped sunglasses and the face that he couldn’t stop seeing even when his eyes were closed. The girl who brought him hard salami even though she didn’t consume red meat— the girl who made _him_ want to stop consuming red meat. The girl who bought him flannel pajamas just so they could match and who promised to protect him from 1997’s fictional serial killer. 

“Sandor? Are you still there?” 

Suddenly he didn’t think he’d been missing out on love for all these year after all. Not if this is what it could feel like when it was taken back. A hole in his heart for years and it’d taken her no time at all to fill it to the brim. But to have it poured out again? Emptied into the garbage disposal like something forgotten from the back of the fridge?

Twenty five years on the planet, six of which were almost bearable and the other nineteen, meaningless until he saw her barefooted in that little fucking blue dress, staring at the clouds in that worn-out hammock. He’d nearly lost his fucking balance when she got up, asked him what he saw in one of the clouds. He could still remember the large, impressionistic hummingbird that was embroidered into the center of her dress. _Meaningless_ until she’d kissed him right on the lips in the middle of that crowded hair salon like no one was watching, like she didn’t have a single care about being seen with _him_. 

And now it was going to end because he’d been burned as a child. It was going to end because no one _cared_ that he’d been burned as a child and therefore he couldn’t afford to care either. It was going to end because no one had loved him for twenty five years and someone was finally starting to and he didn’t know how to protect something so... intangible. _Fuck_ that. 

Sandor couldn’t perform any verbal responses without plunging himself into a lividity, so he released a brief _mhm_ to communicate that his heart was still beating.

“I’m really sorry for what you’re going through,” she said and it took every reserved ounce of backup composure within him to keep from bursting into tears because _this_ was it. “I don’t really know how to help you, Sandor, I wish I did.” 

_Thanks_. He began to shiver; it started in his fingers and it was almost gentle... unlike it cut through him like a whip, and he trembled in his neck and his back, his thighs and his ankles and elbows and... He wanted to throw up. 

“I don’t know what you want me to do because you haven’t told me, but I’ll be here whenever you need me, okay? I don’t want you to have to go through this alone.” 

The tears in his eyes were welled up and waiting to fall but every muscle, every _cell_ _paused_ when she spoke. The arrangement of words that Sandor was hearing didn’t make sense as his brain tried to process them. She was supposed to be saying _goodbye. I’ll be here whenever you need me? That’s not a goodbye. That’s not in the script, little bird._

“We’ll get through it together, Sandor. I promise.” 

_What?_ His stomach was really aching. _Together?_ Sandor was so dumbstruck: where were the hateful words? Did he even hear her correctly? “ _Together_? I don’t...” 

He could hear her take in a breath over the line. “Together.”

”What are you talking about?” 

She hitched a nervous breath over the line, obviously confused at his reaction. “I’m just saying that... If you’re feeling too bad to talk about what’s going on right now, then I’ll be here whenever you’re ready.” 

Sandor felt a wetness over the finger that he was trying to shove into the screw hole and recoiled, pulling it out immediately. Blood. His finger was too wide for the screw hole and it jammed. He wondered if the little bird’s fingers were nimble enough. She was so perfect, her fingers would probably fit fine. The wood would sooner move _for_ her if the circumference was too small. 

He was very confused and it was giving him a headache. _Vodka,_ he wondered. “Ok...” Sandor said. It took a moment for his heart to start up again, and the tears were silently dripping down his cheeks as he continued to process what was going on. 

“Will I be seeing you tomorrow?” 

“No, the day after.” Sandor got out of the dining chair to run his swollen finger under cold water. His body was a certain sort of numb but he made it to the sink fine. “Your dad doesn’t have anything for me tomorrow. But I can come anyway if you want me to.” He would’ve jammed every fucking finger and each of his toes into that wooden screw hole to hear her say that she wanted to see him. 

“I can come to your place if you don’t want to drive the whole distance. I know that my dad makes you hike quite a ways.” 

Sandor glanced ahead at the dining table, which was currently placeholding for a lot of things that did _not_ belong on a dining table. Clothes and papers everywhere. He would have to clean. A lot. 

Some things came with the apartment— funky smells and drywall patches, shitty lighting and creaking floor boards. That wouldn’t all be remedied. She would see that his apartment was a shithole, but he could at least clean it to maybe make her comfortable. It would, of course, be easier to just drive to her place.

“You don’t have to. It takes me just the same amount of time to get to your house,” Sandor said. 

“It’s okay,” Sansa said. “It’s your day off, anyway. I’ll come there. Besides, you don’t have any roommates, do you? My house is always full of people. It’s really hard to be alone, you know? Sometimes I want to be alone. Well—“ she laughed, “I mean, I want to be alone with _you_ tomorrow. Not... all by myself in your apartment... I’m sorry, sometimes I don’t know when to stop talking.” 

Sandor laughed weakly, a mix of fatigue and relief and amusement and her admission of wanting to be alone with him. “I know what you meant, Sansa. You can come over tomorrow. What time should I expect you?”

“Five? I do have to work, but I’ll drive over after.”

“Do you have my building’s address?” 

Sansa paused. “Um... no.” 

Sandor gave her the address. “And it’s apartment 2S,” he added. 

“Okay,” she said in her smiley voice, and she asked him what he thought he’d like to eat. 

She loved to plan everything out. It probably made it easier for her to fantasize, which Sandor could relate to, but he didn’t know what he was going to want to eat for tomorrow’s dinner. He did _not_ plan that far ahead. 

“Anything you want is fine by me,” he said. 

“Sandor, that’s not helpful. Do you like Thai? I know this really good res...”

_Ah, yes_. Her mother had mentioned her affinity for Thai food. 

“That sounds great,” he replied in a smiley voice of his own. She could make him go from ecstatic to weeping and ecstatic again in too short of a period.

“Will you want to watch another movie? I felt kind of bad about picking _Scream_. It wasn’t even that scary.” _Sure it wasn’t, little bird_. “I was thinking—“

“Um.. Sansa? I don’t have a device on which we could watch a movie. I mean I guess I have my laptop but... I don’t think it would quite satisfy you based on the evening you prepared yesterday.” 

“Oh,” she said, seemingly processing how someone could not have a tv in their home. “Do you have a blank wall? I can just bring my projector. It’s pretty tiny anyway.”

“Alright, bring it.” 

“Okay. Talk tomorrow?” 

“Yeah,” said Sandor and they ended the call. 

*****

Sandor spent the entire morning trying to make his apartment look homely. He went out and bought a few poster prints to hang over the areas with the most wall spots. There were still drip stains and dark splotches, but he thought it looked a little better. 

He also bought a welcome mat with a scruffy dog printed on it and a cheap coatrack for beside the door. 

Sandor vacuumed for the first time since he’d moved in, which was evident in the leftover winter road salt caked in every floorboard crevice. He scrubbed the windows with glass cleaner, but some of the dirt was too persistent. 

He washed down the tables; he shoved every miscellaneous item he could find into the overflowing junk drawer; he bought a bowl and filled it with fruit like in those home decor magazines; he did every single dish in the damned kitchen. He brought his dirty clothes to the laundromat, made his bed and cleaned the dust off of his nightstand. 

His cleaning time was paused because he had to go to the orthodontist. They told him that his teeth looked great, like they always said even when it was an overt lie. The doctor mixed up a foamy clay solution, filled two pallets-shaped trays and had Sandor bite down on them. This was for his new retainer set. 

They said he would have to come back in three hours, which would put him at three, he’d get home at three-thirty and then he would still have an hour and a half to stress about the little bird’s arrival. 

The hours passed with a miserable slowness. A lot of the time was spent with Sandor pacing every square foot of his apartment to make sure everything looked perfect. Eventually he’d wasted two and a half hours and it was time to get his new retainer. It was painfully snug and as soon as he left the office, he popped it into the case, deciding that he would put it back in when the little bird left for the night. 

His phone rang at a quarter past four and it was _her_. _God, is she going to cancel?_ Sandor supposed that his apartment needed the TLC anyway... but if she cancelled...... He accepted the call. 

“Hello?”

“Hi! It’s me,” she said, which amused him. 

“Of course it’s you,” Sandor said. “I have your number, you know. I made your contact picture that photo of you from your house. You know, the one from when you were—“

“No, Sandor! You have to change it! What if someone else sees it and... um...”

“And what? No one’s going to say anything to me,” he gave a short laugh. He didn’t spend enough time around people for anyone to see it anyway. “And no one’s going to say anything to you about it either. I’ll not stand for any _teasing_.” He rubbed his knuckles. 

Sansa groaned in displeasure. “I called to ask you what you wanted me to order you for tonight. I sent you the link to the menu over email.”

“Hold on.” Sandor opened his laptop and clicked on the menu. There were like eight pages to go through. “What are you getting?”

“Oh, I’m getting pad thai. Veggie and tofu.”

“Cool. I’ll have that.” _Tofu. Hmm._ Sandor wondered how closely it could compare with chicken. 

“Okay, I’ll get two. Do you want an appetizer? I was thinking spring rolls.”

“Sounds great,” he said, thankful that she was really coming over. She was really going to see his apartment, the shithole that it was. Sandor looked at the fruit bowl, then at the rack with his coat and a few sweatshirts and then at the prints on the wall. Screw it, he was proud of his shithole. At least... prouder than he was yesterday. Before, it just looked like an empty box from the recycling bin, but now it could truly be compared with someone’s home. And it just took a morning to do it. Was that possible? Would she be able to tell that he did it all this morning? “Do you need my card number?”

“Noooo, I’ve got the bill,” she said.

“Are you sure? I can pay for it...”

“Nope. On me.”

“Alright,” he said. “Thanks. See you soon.” 

Sandor wondered if she would bless his apartment with her smell like he’d hoped. He laid on his worn couch, stains and rips concealed in a huge blanket he’d purchased to cover the velvet fabric. He stared at the pit of the fireplace that he’d never once lit and kept the music going at a low volume. 

The buzzer rang at twelve past five. In truth, he could hear her car door shut. Sandor ran downstairs to greet her. 

Sansa was smiling a bit over-enthusiastically when he opened the door. He grabbed the wafting paper bag of food from her, receipt stapled on, and lead the way upstairs. 

The door was still wide open when he showed her inside and set the food on the counter. 

She looked around curiously, touching the jacket on the coat rack that he’d just put up hours ago. She contributed her shoes to the mat beside the door and set her backpack down on a chair. 

“What did you bring along?” Sandor asked, eyeing the bag. 

“My mini projector. My laptop. Oh, and my pajamas. I wasn’t sure what the temperature would be like in here so I brought the flannels from yesterday and a backup pair of pj shorts.” She stroked the canvas with her thumb. “I brought my sketchbook, too. I kind of just bring my backpack everywhere. It’s a habit.” 

_Pj shorts?_ That sounded of high interest to Sandor. 

Sandor nodded, ripping the staple from the brown paper bag and pulling out their takeout containers. He would’ve eaten out of the plastic boxes but supposed that she probably preferred more appropriate dinnerware, so he retrieved two ceramic plates from the cabinet. She came over and they prepared their respective plates with rice noodles and crispy spring rolls. 

“This is really good,” Sandor said, surprised that peanuts and noodles could compliment each other so well. “I’ve actually never had it before.” 

“Really? Huh. It is really good. This is my favorite Thai restaurant in the area.” 

It was probably the only Thai restaurant in the area if Sandor hedged any bets. But he’d still never heard of it!

He was crunching on a spring roll when Sansa pulled out her smartphone. 

It kind of felt bad. Actually, it felt very bad— in a way that he hadn’t expected at all. Why wasn’t he good enough to have all of her attention? 

And then a flash of white light came from the top left corner of the device and he realized she was taking a picture of him. 

“Sansa,” he growled, giving her the evil eye. 

She turned the screen to him so he could see that she’d programmed it into his contact photo. He didn’t appreciate seeing his burns and he didn’t understand how she could want to see them either, but it felt good that she’d willingly created a situation where she would see a picture of him every time he called her from now on. 

”You deserve it,” she said. 

“Perhaps. But you _sent_ me the damn photo.”

”Well, you didn’t send me a picture of yourself for my own contact photo.” 

Sandor sighed. “Whatever. So what movie are we watching?”

The little bird went red and looked at her plate. “Well... I was hoping we could watch _Titanic_.” 

“Okay,” Sandor said.

“Look, I know that a lot of people consider it a _chick flick_ but it’s one of my favorite movies.” 

_Chick flicks._ As if he gave a flying fuck. 

“Fine by m—”

“It’s really not even that _romantic_ , if you ask me. At least, not when everyone dies at the end. Well, not everyone I suppose.” 

“I’m sure tha—”

“And there _is_ action. There’s so much action! Guns and evil security guards and hypothermia. I just don’t understand why it gets such a bad rep.” 

“Sansa...”

“My parents think it’s stupid that they could fall in love in just a couple of days but they just don’t understand. They don’t understand how much two people could come to care for each other in just a few days.” 

Sandor didn’t feel like getting interrupted again, so he kept his mouth shut.

Her eyes glazed over with stars as she stared at something blankly across the room. “It _is_ romantic though. It’s so romantic. And Leonardo DiCaprio— ugh. He’s so...” Her face changed back to a frown. “How can men think it’s _boring_? There’s so much action!” 

“Sansa,” he said firmly, grabbing her forearm lightly, learning from his lesson the other evening. Her focus snapped to him. “ _Titanic_ sounds perfect. I haven’t seen it, and there’s no one else I’d rather watch it with.” 

“Really?” The stars returned to her eyes. “That’s so sweet,” she said, moving her forearm away to stroke the inside of his palm. 

Sandor took that as a score, pointing her to the direction of his bedroom and then the bathroom while he carried their dishes off. 

When he walked into his room, she was sitting on his bed, feet dangling off the edge as she got everything hooked up. His heart clenched to see her so comfortable. It felt so _right_ to see her at his dining table, in his bed— anywhere in this buggering apartment. The memory of her when she left would not be so easy to erase. How much more time was appropriate before they could move in together? He could wake up next to her every morning; they could dine together every evening and watch movies every night. She could brush his hair and wear his clothes and snuggle him all the time. 

If she spent that much time here, surely she would imprint her smell, wouldn’t she? 

The movie began to play once it connected to the projector, but she stopped it and hopped onto the wooden floorboards. Sansa made frustrated remarks to herself about how _this wouldn’t do_ and started pulling at Sandor’s comforter and fleece blanket like a true little bird making her nest. He offered to help her construct whatever dream-setup she was trying to obtain, but she said that she would do it herself.

She’d arranged the pillows around the headboard in a curve that extended to the middle of each side of the mattress. And his fleece blanket was covering them, extending below the comforter so that her skin wouldn’t directly touch the sheets. It was the opposite of what he wanted, since he’d hoped that she would stain his bedding with her scent— but he certainly wasn’t going to protest her custom arrangement. 

And then she skipped out of the room with her backpack and into the bathroom. Sandor used the opportunity to change into his nightwear: her flannel pants and an extra baggy t-shirt. 

When she emerged, it was in a loose white long-sleeve with tiny pink flowers and a pair of short— _very_ short— off-white shorts with little rainbows. She looked around the room. 

“Sandor, do you have a mirror in here?” 

_Shit_. “Yeah. It’s over there.” He pointed. 

Sansa walked over. It took her a moment, but she tried to rub the back of her hand on it. The black paint must’ve just reached the top of her head. “Sandor this mirror is stained. How can you see your face in it?” She brushed her hair through her fingers, turning her body to admire herself from all directions. 

“I don’t.” 

She perked an eyebrow at him. “What do you mean?” 

Sandor sighed. “I don’t look at the reflection of my face. I was the one who stained it. It’s black paint.” 

“Oh,” she said, stilling. “...Why...?” 

_God, why doesn’t she get it?_ “Because... I don’t _like_ to look at myself.” 

Sansa walked over and climbed onto the bed, criss-crossing her legs. She gestured for him to get on as well, and they faced each other on top of the covers. It felt like it was going to turn into some sort of lecture honestly. His dad never really cared enough to give him any lectures, but Sandor had seen them happen in movies and tv shows... and that’s what this felt like. Like she was _sitting him down for a talk._

“I like to look at you,” Sansa said and ran her knuckle along his unscarred cheek. “I like to look at you a lot.” 

Sandor froze. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked quietly.

Sandor pulled his upper lip between his teeth. _We’ll get through it together, okay?_

“It’s okay if you don’t, but if you need someone to listen to you then I will. You can tell me anything.” 

“It’s not a sweet tale.” 

“I don’t expect it to be.”

He’d been wanting to tell someone for the past nineteen years, but it never happened. He wanted to tell her so badly, to tell her everything terrible that ever happened to him and he wanted to let her comfort him and whisper all of the sweet words. _You didn’t deserve that; it wasn’t your fault; I won’t leave you_. But nothing would come out. 

He waited nineteen years, he could wait another day. 

“I’d rather watch the movie,” Sandor said. 

Sansa’s expression sank a little, but she nodded her consent. She pressed play and put the laptop on the nightstand while Sandor went to turn off the light. 

On his way back over, Sansa scooted all the way back against the nest she’d crafted, at the center of his headboard. She smiled at him enthusiastically, legs crossed, and patted the space in front of her. 

Sandor wondered if she was trying to seduce him, unlikely as the idea was, even though she probably wouldn’t start something like that at the beginning of one of her _favorite movies_. When he got onto the bed, she gestured for him to get under the blankets with her. He complied, moving in on her with the possibility that maybe she _did_ want to mess around. Though it seemed clear that that wasn’t what she planned when she made him turn around. 

It felt weird to have his back turned to her. Whatever motives she may’ve had were not occurring naturally to Sandor. _You can’t fuck like this, can you?_

Sansa kneaded the mattress to her satisfaction and then sat back, grabbing him at the sides and pulling him back against her chest. She opened her legs and cradled him between them. Her legs were almost bare and he could feel them through the fabric: warm and soft. 

His head rested below her jaw and as soon as they were settled, she started petting him. She rubbed his shoulders, his neck, his biceps— but when she tried to rub the sides of his torso, he jerked. 

“Does that... tickle?” 

“No,” he said, lying like a little boy found with a cookie at midnight.

”Okay,” Sansa said, not sounding very convinced. 

Sandor felt like a puppy. A maleable, obedient puppy that let its master bend its legs in every which way. But he also felt safe— not safe because he was in his own apartment and no one was going to come and murder him like in the film he’d watched last night, but safe because the little bird was holding him, watching over him. He was like a puppy, _her_ puppy, and she was protecting him. 

The opening credits came in with their corresponding melodies. Leonardo DiCaprio made his entrance and Sandor could practically hear the little bird’s heart stop. 

She put her hands in his hair, scratching his scalp the way she did in the hair salon. 

“That feels good,” Sandor said, tilting his head back to look up her. 

“Shh! Look, you’re missing it!” 

Sandor sighed, turning his gaze back on the projected image on the wall. At least she kept her fingers in his hair. She pulled the locks away from his head, untangling the little knots that had formed with a pinch.

”You smell really good,” she said, inhaling his scent behind the ear. 

It seemed impossible that she could think so. And ironic. 

“Shh,” Sandor mocked, “you’re missing it.” 

She bit his ear. He guessed it was meant to be painful, but it felt far too good and his toes twitched.

A few of the antagonists were accusing Leonardo DiCaprio, or _Jack_ , of sexual assault after he saved Kate Winslet— _Rose_ — from suicide and Sansa took in a really deep breath, squeezing Sandor with her knees in anxiety even though she must’ve seen the movie a dozen times. 

“Sansa,” he said, putting a hand on her knee. It was getting a little uncomfortable. “It’s okay.” 

She seemed to have forgotten that he was there. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said and resumed her massaging of his scalp. “I really hate this part.” 

When something romantic would happen, Sandor could feel the effect it was having on her in the way she touched him. Her caresses would be slower, gentler. Her breathing patterns against his back would be slower as well— sometimes like she wasn’t breathing at all. She would knead his shoulders and the sides of his neck and make him groan all because of Jack’s ability to draw Rose in the nude. He wondered if she would like to draw him in the nude, or if perhaps she would let him draw her. 

_And what would the little bird look like in the nude?_ Sandor grabbed onto her feet from where they were resting by his knees. He pressed back into her chest, squeezing her toes through light blue socks. 

“Sandor! What are you doing? That tickles!” She wiggled her feet out of his grasp and he chuckled. 

“It wasn’t supposed to tickle, you’re just _sensitive_.” 

She poked him in the side of the head. “You’re missing it,” she said. 

When the ship hit the iceberg and everyone scrambled for their lives, Sansa half strangled him. She enveloped him with her arms and legs alike, squeezing him like a vise. 

Sandor took hold of her hands where they were locked tightly at his chest. There were a few moments that brought him dangerously close to tears, but then old-Rose threw the Heart of the Ocean into the Atlantic and Sandor was too annoyed to cry. He was averse to seeing people throw away millions of dollars. _Someone will just find it eventually anyway._

But he kept his mouth shut. The little bird thought that this entire movie was the epitome of romance and true love and it was best not to spoil it for her. Besides, there were a few scenes that made his heart stop as well. 

“Did you... like it...?”

”Yeah,” Sandor said, and it wasn’t a lie. “It was really good. But I already knew that— everyone knows that.” 

Every minute that he sat still felt wrong. Even during the movie, he’d wanted to turn away from the screen and kiss and kiss and _kiss_ her, though she would’ve gotten upset about him _missing it_. But now, there was no movie! There was nothing in the way of his lips and hers save for his inability to turn around and make a move on her. 

Sansa traced his shoulders. They stayed in a small puddle like that for half an hour, maybe, after the credits had ended before Sansa had to go. 

“I have to go,” she said, placing a kiss on his head. 

“I know,” Sandor said, but they didn’t move for another ten minutes. 

”Sansa, take the leftovers,” he said once they were back in the kitchen. 

“No, keep them. It’s fine, I buy from there all the time.”

”You paid for the food,” he insisted. “Take it back with you. It’s Thai, it’s your favorite, take it home.” 

Sansa froze. “How did you know Thai is my favorite?” 

_Shit._ “Oh... Um... your mom tipped me off.” Kind of embarrassing to admit but better than her thinking he was a stalker and came up with the information by himself. 

She rolled her eyes and grinned, walking towards the door _without_ the paper bag. 

“Wait!” Sandor ran over, snatching the bag and trying to give it to her, but when he turned her around, she assaulted his mouth with a kiss. 

He ended up dropping the paper bag full of food onto the floor and when she looked down and saw it, she giggled at him. And then she got onto her tippy toes to press her lips against his parted mouth.

“Goodnight,” Sansa said, wiping her mouth after she’d withdrawn. She put her hand on his chest, where his heart probably was. Sandor wondered if she could feel it beating, and if she knew that it was mostly for her. “Enjoy your leftovers.”

And she left. And Sandor put the leftovers into his fridge and brushed his teeth and crawled back into the bed that _used_ to be his but felt different now that she’d come and rearranged it. She rearranged everything. She was a tornado.

He pulled the covers up to his chest and despite himself, he opened his laptop and turned on James Cameron’s: _Titanic_. 


	5. The Boyfriendly Thing to Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I changed the titles of a few things. It was Grooming Day when I considered it being a one-shot, but as of the past 4 chapters, that’s no longer fitting. I may change the series title again, but for now I’m content with it. 
> 
> Hope you’re all well! My town is really dead and I haven’t left the house in a almost a week. Lots of time for writing!

Sansa wasn’t at her house the next day after all. Originally, Sandor was supposed to go over because Ned wanted him to repaint some of the siding that couldn’t be cleaned by power washing. Sandor went to the department store, spent a million years arguing with an unintelligent sixteen-year-old looking boy about the type of adhesive coat he needed to prep the vinyl for exterior paint. _Why the fuck do they have him as an assistant if he doesn’t know the first thing about home repair?_

He called Ned to tell him that, _again_ , the store didn’t have the prepping coat that he needed, but when Ned answered, he said that he actually had a different job for Sandor anyway.

Ned asked him to replace the shattered window in their shed. Apparently the little wolf and her brother were playing at baseball and sent the ball through the glass. It seemed that neither one of them would be star batter.

The razor that Sandor tried to use to scrape away the dry window glaze was completely inefficient. It wouldn’t grip on the clay. When he conveyed the problem to Ned, Ned offered him a blowdryer— saying that the heat would soften the putty.

A _blowdryer_. Like the contraption the little bird used on his hair? It looked like a weapon some sort of stunning device for your worst enemies. 

It worked well enough, warming the clay up to a pliable state where he could scrape all of it off. Ned had already purchased a glass pane, which relieved Sandor greatly because he was tired of that fucking department store.

Sandor went inside when he was finished repairing to say hello to Sansa but Catelyn told him that she wasn’t home. He put the blowdryer on the table.

“Will she be back soon?”

Catelyn wrinkled her eyebrows curiously. “I don’t know. Hang on, I’ll call her.” She disappeared into the other room.

Sandor could’ve called her himself, but then Ned came in from the back door.

Sandor stood up instinctively when he entered. “The window’s all fixed.”

“Yeah, I saw. You did a good job with it.” He explained that he didn’t really have much more for Sandor to do around the house once he painted over the siding stains.

Not much more to do around the house. Not much more work. It occurred to Sandor that he was about to be let go.

But then... he didn’t. Instead it sounded like Ned offered him a job. A _real_ job... in _maintenance_... with his _company_.

“So,” Ned began, “you’d show up at eight and I’ll be there to give you tasks, similar to the things you’ve done here. You’d be repairing our apartments.”

“Yes,” Sandor said without hesitation. It was a no-brainer, wasn’t it? He needed the money so fucking badly. 

Ned smiled. “Great. You can start Monday.” 

He was explaining that he would have someone send Sandor a couple of forms to fill out along with a checklist of the information Sandor needed to send in when Catelyn walked back into the living room.

“She’s out for the day,” she said.

“Oh,” Sandor said. It sounded kind of ominous. _Out for the day_ where? “Okay.”

He realized that they’d been spending a lot of time with each other and it was probably good to get some space to himself again, but now she wasn’t here and he already missed her. She’d apologized for being clingy, but she was wrong— he wanted that. He wanted her to want to be around him all the time because this didn’t feel good. 

He knew he was probably being dramatic, but it felt like being abandoned again. Like she’d had her week with him and now she was bored. 

Sandor went back to his apartment.

*****

It felt like old times. Reheated pizza for dinner and watching movies on his laptop with no one to bother him. 

He was asleep in the ruin that she’d made of his bed when his phone rang.

Sandor shook himself awake. _Who the fuck is calling m—_

_Sansa_.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” the little bird said in the midst of a giggle fit.

Sandor waited for her to say something more. When she didn’t, “Is there anything in particular you were hoping to discuss with me?”

_Hey_ , he’d texted her nearly four hours ago and she’d not replied. 

“No,” she said, making herself crack up. _Where the fuck is she?_ There were many nosies coming from over the line: terrible music, chatter, occasional yelling.

“Sansa, where are you?” He sat up.

“I’m at a party,” she said.

_ Oh god, is she drunk? _

“Sansa? Have you been drinking?”

“I just had a ‘Long Island Iced Tea’.” She startled giggling again, choking on her own laughter. “Have you ever had one of those before?”

Sandor rubbed his forehead, dragging his fingers across the line where his skin texture changed. “Yes, little bird. I’ve had a Long Island Iced Tea before. Is that all you had?”

“Um... _no_...” She sounded like she was scared of his reaction— like she was a seventeen-year-old being caught by her parents even though _she_ called _him_. “I had a cosmopolitan, too. And half a shot of Fireball.”

Half _a shot?_ _Who the fuck only takes_ half _a shot?_ _For fuck’s sake._ Sandor got out of the bed and went for his jeans.

“Sandor? You should come! It’s a blast!”

He pulled on his worn red sneakers, then his sweatshirt. “Right. What’s the address?”

Sansa gave him the address, sounding so giddy he was sure she believed that he was coming over to party with her. He didn’t waste time getting on the road.

“I don’t want to let you off the phone until I’m there. Don’t hang up on me,” he said. Last thing he needed was for her to not answer her phone once he got there. 

The little bird talked the entire time, both to him and other people, while they were on the phone. But that didn’t matter. It was _good_ , even. As long as he could hear her, it meant that she was safe and... conscious.

Sandor could hear the party approaching before he even saw the house. Inebriated people were stumbling drunkenly down the street and it took a lot of caution and patience to park without running anyone over.

It was hard to spot anyone who was sober when he walked through the backyard entrance, around the enormous pool, full of people ranging from clothed to fully naked.

“Alright, where are you?”

“I’m over— Oh, I see you!”

Sandor looked around, taking a long moment before finally seeing Sansa waving at him, hearing her giggle over the phone. She was wearing a loose, baby pink dress that didn’t quite reach the knees and tanned Roman sandals.

She was surrounded by red Solo cups and there were far too many men here for Sandor’s comfort. He hung up the phone at seeing her and walked up.

Sansa threw her bare arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek, the unburnt one. He could feel how unbalanced she was, how the abrupt movement had disrupted her grasp on herself and caused her to stumble until Sandor caught her by the waist.

“I’m so happy that you came!”

“Yeah,” Sandor said, steadying her jittering figure against the patio bar.

She gestured to a woman a few feet away that Sandor had thought was unrelated, grabbing her by the upper arm. “This is my friend Shae.” She had curly black hair and it seemed that smiling didn’t come as easily to her as it did to Sansa.

Sandor nodded at her and forced himself to smile _politely_. 

“Shae, this is Sandor.” He didn’t like _Sandor_ as much as _my boyfriend_.

Shae gave a slight nod in return and then went back to her conversation with the other people around her.

“So do you want a drink?” Sansa gestured to the bar behind them.

“No... I think we should go,” Sandor said.

“No!” She recoiled as if he’d burned her. “I’m having so much fun. I don’t want to go just yet.”

Sandor sighed and scratched the back of his ear. He wasn’t sure that she was going to be easily persuaded away from this obviously _just stellar scene_ , but he certainly wasn’t going to sit here for the next two hours waiting for her to be ready to go. He’d been sleeping when she called, for god’s sake.

She’d fallen prey to his touch when they were in the sea together and perhaps she would here as well. Sandor leaned up against her, pressing her gently into the edge of the bar top. She smiled at him and her breath slowed, so he continued. He kissed her neck, her shoulder in front of everyone, not that everyone was watching. There were more than a few couples drunkenly going at it, but being sober, it felt exhilarating to display this sort of attention to her in front of any interested eyes. 

It was difficult to try to turn her on without becoming turned on himself, and thus forgetting his primary intentions to leave. With their chests pressed together, the softness of her breast coming through the pink fabric.

Even Sandor could see that she was overdressed. She’d been invited to a party, a mob of slobbering college kids and she looked ready for a red carpet gala. As he’d suspected before, maybe it was just _her_. 

She took in a long, slow breath and exposed her neck further to him. Sandor was going to pull back, but she stopped him, curling her fingers around the two belt loops beside his jean zipper and keeping him against her.

“Don’t stop,” she practically whined, retracting one hand from his jeans to place on the lower half of his stomach.  It felt like she had electricity surging through her fingers when she touched him. 

Sandor moved in closer, weaving his forearms between plastic cups to rest on the bar counter behind her. He sucked on her neck in a few different spots— which she _really_ seemed to like if her continuous audible reverberations were any indication. The way that she dug her fingertips into his abdomen was also telling.

He pushed her hair away with one hand and pulled his tongue along the side of her neck, pausing below the ear. “Are you ready to go now?” Despite his efforts to remain static, her encouragement was having an effect on him and if she didn’t buy into his intents to leave soon, he was going to be in trouble.

Sansa nodded slowly, adjusting her hands onto his hips to keep herself balanced as she tried to move about. She continued to paw eagerly at his torso while he waved to Shae.

“I’m going to take her home,” he said quietly enough so that Sansa wouldn’t pay mind.

Shae nodded. She wasn’t drunk.

Despite being tired and slightly annoyed, Sandor chuckled at her struggle to walk in a successful line.

“Come on, little bird, you’ve got it.” He felt like he was walking a senior citizen as he held Sansa’s jittery hand.

It took much longer to make it back to the line of cars than Sandor thought would be necessary. Sansa would’ve fallen twice had he not braced her weight in time.

“Did you drive here?”

She nodded, leaning her head against his arm.

“Do you have your keys?”

If she didn’t have her keys, then they would take his car— and while she was probably too drunk to process the cheap, run-down piece of junk, Sandor really held onto the hope that they could take her car. Worst case scenario, he could get a ride to his car in the morning.

Sansa tried to reach into her pockets, but then realized that she was wearing a dress and in turn, realized that she didn’t have pockets. Her eyes glazed over and she chuckled to herself before sticking her hand directly into the cleavage of her dress and pulling out a key ring. She presented it to Sandor.

“Right,” Sandor said, taking the warmed metal. “And... your car? Where is it?”

Sansa looked around. “I don’t know,” she said.

Sandor took a deep sigh. It took another twenty minutes to find her car, which was parked way down the road for some reason, even though she claimed she was one of the first people here. The car alarm wasn’t very loud; Sandor hit the button a hundred times before they started to hear the _beep beep_.

“Come on,” Sandor said, helping her into the passenger seat. “In you go.” She was trying to tug his shirt now that she was safely in the car, but Sandor pushed her hands away.

He didn’t know very much about girls, or about having a _girlfriend_ — if that’s what she was— but he did know about getting drunk. He was familiar with the enhancements that alcohol had on the senses; familiar with the ways in which his body craved things, and this was likely a craving.

Sandor closed her car door and walked around to the other side, wondering if he should call her parents or just take her to his apartment. He didn’t know what her parents would prefer and obviously he couldn’t ask Sansa. He knew he should probably just call them.

Sandor opened the driver’s door and stepped in. “Sansa, do your—“

Sansa had unzipped the back of her dress and the front was sagging heavily: the shoulder pieces resting above her elbows, her back exposed in every place where it wasn’t touching the velvet seat, her chest piece around her waist. Her lace, peach-colored bra was impossible to miss and it seemed desperate for Sandor’s inexperienced fingers.

“Sansa, put it back on.”

The little bird declined and leaned over, her dress slipping further down her waist, and she clutched Sandor’s chest. “Why? I thought that we got away from there so that we could be together.” She searched for his pulse with her teeth, not seeming to pay much mind to whether or not her touch was too harsh.

Oh god, it felt so good to have her hands on him— but he couldn’t. With his last remaining restraint, Sandor pushed away her hands. “No, um... just wait until we get back...” When she was back in her seat properly, still partially unclothed, Sandor pulled her seatbelt and pressed the buckle in with a click.

Sansa seemed unsatisfied with this response, but let it go, asking Sandor to turn on the radio. He complied, plugging the aux into his flip phone’s headphone jack and playing downloaded music.

“Did you tell your parents you were going to a party?”

Sansa shook her head, waving her arms around to the rhythm of the song.

“Your mom said you would be out for the day, do you— Whatever.” Sandor unplugged his phone despite Sansa’s protests and dialed Ned.

The more rings went by, the more Sandor was convinced that they were asleep and that he should probably just get her some food and take her home. But then Ned answered.

“Sandor?”

“Hi... Sorry to call you so late. Sansa asked me to get her from some party. She’s a little... well, she’s a bit drunk. She gave me her keys and I was going to get her something to eat and bring her home.”

“Oh, Sandor, you don’t have to do all of that. You live so far away, I don’t want you to have to drive out here and back. She can stay at your apartment, if you’ll have her, or you’re welcome to spend the night here.”

Oh god, stay at his _apartment_? If she slept in his bed, he might never let her leave. “Oh... uhh, okay. I’ll bring her home. Like I said, I’m going to get her some food. I’ll be there in like an hour and a half.”

“Thank you, Sandor. She has a house key, but I’ll leave one under the mat just in case.”

Sandor said goodbye and the call ended.

“Alright, little bird, what’ll it be?” Sandor got onto the main road which would take them downtown. “Any special cravings? Pizza? Pasta? Waffles?—“

“Ooh! I want pancakes,” Sansa said enthusiastically. 

So he took her to IHOP. It was the only 24 hour diner nearby, and probably the only establishment that would serve breakfast food at this hour. The exterior lights were bright on Sandor’s eyes and imaginably worse for the intoxicated little bird. But she wanted pancakes and who was he to refuse?

It took some coaxing to get her dress zipped all the way up again, and she tried to seduce him twice in the process. Sandor walked to the other side as she got out of the car to offer her an arm to keep steady. The little bird leaned her ear on his upper arm, claiming that her head felt heavy.

“It feels like a bowling ball,” she giggled, regarding her skull. 

“It’ll pass. Food will help.” 

The two of them were seated opposite each other. Usually he sat with his burned side facing the window, but Sansa sat first so now his scars faced the restaurant.

Sansa had her head in her palms, her elbows against the table. She looked very blank, as though all of her energy had been sucked out in a matter of seconds. The animation from her buzz was wearing off, it seemed. 

A waitress greeted them; a twenty-something woman with curly brown hair and a light blue apron. She put two menus on the table.

“Hi! I’m Grace. I’ll be your server. What can I get you guys to drink?”

Sansa’s ear perked up and she lifted her head slightly to look at the woman. She reached for the cocktail menu, scrolling it through with her eyes. “Oh, I’ll have—“

“Two waters,” Sandor said, snatching the drinks menu out of the little bird’s hands and giving it to their server. She smiled awkwardly and went back to the kitchen.

Had she been giving him a look? This is why he preferred sitting with his burned side to the window; the waitstaff always made it weird.

“Sandor, that’s not what I wanted,” she said, frowning. “I wanted the... the... um...”

If he let her, she would make him feel guilty and ultimately he would let her have another drink. Sandor avoided her pouty expression.

“You need water,” he said. “You have to keep hydrated.”

Sansa groaned, obviously uninterested in his reasoning for cutting her off.

They didn’t look like they belonged together at all. She was gorgeous and clean and dressed for a ball and he looked like... _well_ , like he’d just gotten out of bed an hour ago. He was embarrassed to be so underdressed and unattractive; he was afraid that people would think he’d _paid_ to be with her. To be his _arm candy_ for the night or something absurd like that. 

If only they knew that she was priceless. She was a princess in every way apart from being a member of the _real_ royal family and the truth was, she deserved a prince. Not a man that looked like Sandor.

Sansa perused the menu.

_Spicy buffalo chicken sandwich. Cupcake pancakes. Strawberry creme crepe?_ The flexible plastic lamination was sticky. Sansa was staring at the french toast selection when the waitress came back with two glasses of ice water. She put the glasses at the edge of the table and went back to the kitchen.

Despite not wanting the water, Sansa gulped it all down. It was good to see her hydrating, so Sandor gave her his water as well. They swapped glasses and while she took long swigs from his water, he crunched the ice cubes from her glass.

It didn’t take long before the little bird required the bathroom. 

“I have to pee,” she said, getting up from the booth. 

“Oh.” Sandor started getting up, “Do you want me to walk you there?”

She shook her head. “I can make it to the _bathroom_ , Sandor.”

It was half truthful. She made it to the bathroom ultimately but the whole time she was gone, Sandor worried that she’d fallen and hit her head on the way. 

When she stumbled back into her side a few minutes later, the waitress had already come back. 

She put her hand into her pocket where a little notepad peaked out. “Do you need another minute?”

Sandor looked at the little bird, leaving it up to her.

“Can I have the tres leches pancakes?” Sansa asked, ignoring the initial question.

The waitress nodded and while she scribbled it onto her notepad, Sandor grabbed his wallet and glanced at it from the seat. IHOP was cheap, but he wanted to make sure he had at least forty dollars in cash.

He looked at the menu one last time, glancing quickly through all the choices he’d considered. “I’ll have the pancakes and chicken. And...”

“Stop looking at him like that!”

At Sansa’s profound growl, Sandor looked up to see her frowning deeply at the waitress. The poor server, _Grace_ , bit her lip and went utterly red. He could almost see the sweat on her forehead.

Sansa grabbed his fingers where they curled around the menu. “There’s nothing to look at! They’re just scars!” she said. It wasn’t quite a shout, but it was loud enough to draw the attention of the only nearby table and a few people from the bar top.

Sandor’s face grew smoldering hot and he gulped. _Oh fuck me._

“And a side of hash browns,” he said.

The waitress nodded quickly and fled off.

“I can’t believe she was looking at you like that.”

Sandor shrugged. _I can_.

“People are so fucking _rude_ ,” she said, playing with the sugar jar. She turned the glass upside down and seemed a little too amused when a small pool of sugar fell out, like she was surprised.

“That’s enough of that,” he said, putting the sugar jar back where it belonged. And _fucking?_ He had a hard time registering the little bird’s profanities. He was looking forward to bringing up her drunken behavior in the future when she was sober. 

“You’re not even upset about it,” she said, glowering at him as though he’d done something wrong now.

Sandor shook his head. “And you don’t have to be either.”

It felt good that she was upset about it. He didn’t see their waitress giving him any looks— and perhaps she hadn’t— but the little bird’s anger that someone could be disgusted by him really boosted his ego. Even if it was just because of the alcohol.

Sansa spread out the pool of sugar that she poured and drew little lines with her pinky. She laughed deviously at the characture she’d drawn. “It kinda looks like you,” she said, pointing to the sugar.

Sandor peered over. As someone very familiar with his own face, he said, “That looks nothing like me.”

“Yeah,” she said, sweeping away the sugar. “I guess you’re right.”

She started to pull out the salt and pepper, and then went for the Tabasco and ketchup— but Sandor put his hands over hers and stopped her, pushing the containers back into their little basket.

“You ordered pancakes, remember, little bird? Don’t think you’ll be needing Tabasco.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes at him, but he didn’t think it was as intimidating as she probably hoped.

It was a game changer, however, when Sandor felt her foot rub up against the inside of his thigh. _When did she take off those fucking sandals?_ He swallowed and tried to act like nothing happened.

Sansa folded her hands. “Who doesn’t like a little heat?”

She continued to advance her foot until her toes nudged his cock. Sandor flinched back and reached his hand under the table mechanically to grab her foot.

“If you wanted _heat_ , you should’ve ordered something savory— because if you try to contaminate your pancakes with hot sauce, I swear...”

Sansa giggled like his irritability was the cleverest joke in the world. “You’ll what?”

While Sandor was thinking of a response, he caught their server coming out with three plates. When she got to the table, she put them down in front of the pair of them respectively as soon as possible and yelped _enjoy!_ before heading quickly away.

Sansa was very enthused to receive her food, she didn’t even seem to remember how angry _Grace_ made her. Her eyes were glazed when she dug her fork into the tres leches pancakes. _Food’ll do well in soaking up the alcohol._

“Oh this is so good,” she said with a mouth full of pancakes.

It turned out that alcohol really fucked with her ability to eat like a _mannered_ girl. She kept missing the pancakes with her fork, and when she would finally collect the perfect bite, it would slip from the metal and fall right back onto the plate.

Sandor chuckled at her, not even bothering with his own fork as he curled a chicken tender inside of a pancake like a taco. The chicken was good: salty, crunchy, not too greasy. But the pancakes were a bit heavy, so Sandor ripped off some of the excess, switching the ratio to more chicken, less pancake.

Sansa decided that despite the gooey qualities of her meal, she too could eat with her hands. She rolled up a pancake and seemed to have better luck with it, only jabbing her cheek a few times with. Overall, she ate well, finishing about half of her stack. 

Her hands were a mess though: sticky with whipped cream, dulce de leche and sweetened condensed milk. She pointed to the hash brown, “Can I have part of that?”

“Yeah, go for it,” he said and pushed the plate in her direction.

She went in directly with her hands and took a part that ended up being a little more than half, which made Sandor a little hysterical. The hash brown did _not_ help with the state of her hands. He started cracking up at her, which resulted in the little bird sending her foot into his shin. _Now she’s put her shoes back on._

“Ow!”

Sansa shrugged— and then her shrug entertained her and she started giggling. And they laughed like that for a long minute until the little bird blushed and smiled and Sandor could feel his own cheeks burn and was forced to smile himself.

“Can I try yours?”

She nodded.

Sandor removed his unused fork from its rolled napkin and pulled away a bite for himself. The pancakes were delicious. They were fluffy with a creamy syrup on top, so sweet he thought it might turn his stomach but it didn’t even matter because it tasted so good.

“It’s really good,” he said, going in for a second bite.

“Hey! You asked if you could try it and you did. If you want a second bite, you have to pay up.”

“I already did _pay up!_ You stole half of my hash brown!”

Sansa didn’t know what to say about that, and in her hesitation, Sandor took a second bite of the tres leches pancakes.

“Do you want a bite of this?” Sandor extended his second, half-eaten chicken-pancake taco assembly.

Sansa considered it and then nodded. She took a sizable bite and handed it back to him. She nodded her approval.

Her hunger had been sated, it seemed, by the way she just stared at the table. Sandor discarded his last pancake completely to eat another chicken tender.

“You alright?”

The question made her yawn and rub her knuckles over her watered eyes. “I’m kinda tired.”

Sandor put down the last bit of his piece of chicken. He gulped down the rest of the water that she didn’t finish. “Wait here a minute.”

As he walked up to the bar counter, he fished in his wallet for a twenty and a five. He handed it to Grace. “Keep it.”

“Thank you,” she said. Her face was set on edge. “I’m sorry if I insulted you, or made you _uncomfortable_ or...”

Sandor nodded. There wasn’t really anything else for him to say. And she’d probably only said it because her manager made her. He walked back to their table. Sansa had pushed the remains of her tres leches forward so that she could lean over the table, her head resting against her arms.

“Ready to go?”

She lifted her head and nodded slightly, her eyes hardly open.

“Come on,” Sandor said, reaching to help her up. Once she was standing, he offered her his arm to brace herself on while they walked out of the restaurant and back into her car. Obviously the water and carbs had helped her sober up a bit, since she was just slightly wobbling now.

“Sandor?”

“Uh huh?”

“Thanks for coming to get me,” Sansa said, taking his right hand while he steered with the left. “If you hadn’t, I probably would’ve driven home and, well...”

“It likely wouldn’t have gone in your favor,” Sandor suggested.

She shook her head and brushed over his knuckles with her thumb.

When they got to her house, the porch lights were on. _Thanks, Ned_.

“Alright,” Sandor pulled the keys out of the ignition. “We’re here.”

He pulled the handle and pushed the door open with his foot. The car lights turned on. Sansa had her head leaning against the window. _Goddamnit, she’s asleep._

Her buckle was fastened properly, so when Sandor opened her door, he knew she wouldn’t fall out. When he released the seatbelt and untangled it from her arm, she didn’t react.

“Come on, little bird.” He moved a few strands of hair away from her her mouth and she stretched her limbs. “We’re already here,” Sandor said. “We just have to go inside.”

Sansa groaned and threw her legs to the side. The skirt of her dress rode up her thigh quite a bit but Sandor pretended like nothing happened as she landed on the driveway.

The key was under the mat, exactly as Ned said it would be. Sandor tried to make as little noise as possible while they found their way upstairs. 

Before they made it into Sansa’s room, they were interrupted by Ned. He reached for Sansa. He would probably continue to be the only man whose embrace didn’t make Sandor jealous. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” Sansa said. “I’m just kinda tired now.” 

“Thanks for bringing her home, Sandor.” Ned gave his shoulder an approving pat. “Is there anything you need?”

Sandor requested a toothbrush. He would’ve liked clothes to sleep in, but there was a line and it landed somewhere before asking to wear his... _maybe_ -girlfriend’s dad’s pajama pants.

_Oh god. Girlfriend? Is that what she is?_ There were all sorts of promises in _girlfriend_ ; all of which made Sandor’s knees very wobbly. Promises of being the only person at the receiving end of her kisses, and someone who he could give all of _his_ kisses to all the time. Promises of her lemon sandwich cookies and sleepovers every weekend and maybe not being alone on his birthday. His birthday was just in three months, surely she would still want to be with him until then, wouldn’t she? 

“Come on, Sandor, let’s go,” Sansa tugged on his hand and pulled him into her bedroom. 

Sandor sat off the edge of her bed, right next to her nightstand. The bottle of wine was gone but there was a circular red-purple stain where he guessed it had been. His senses were both numbed and heightened as though he’d been drinking himself, but he certainly hadn’t. 

“I’ve been waiting to take this off for hours.” Sansa bent her arm awkwardly behind her back to pull down the zipper. He didn’t think she was going to be successful but then her bare skin was rapidly becoming more visible and it took a lot of concentration to study a knot in her floorboards instead. “I didn’t even need to wear it. I mean, did you see the way some of them were dressed? I stuck out, for sure.”

She stuck out everywhere. “Some of them were a bit... less _classy_ than you.” He could hear her getting a hanger out of her closet to put the dress back up. She was almost naked, damnit, and while his gaze was fixed ruthlessly on a jagged groove in her table, Sandor couldn’t resist picturing what her underwear looked like.

Would she be so scandalized if he looked...? She didn’t seem to have much of a problem removing her clothes when they were on the beach, but that was different. Actually... _was it_ different? Sandor kept his eyes on his his knees. 

“Yeah,” she laughed and shut a few drawers. “I guess so. A few people weren’t even dressed at all.” 

It took her a moment, but soon she was leaning over him in a _Sublime_ t-shirt. Her pink shorts were patterned with floppy-eared dogs of varying colors. Sandor realized that she probably didn’t wear bras to sleep, but to see her boobs point out through the cotton disoriented him more than a little.

He swallowed. “Do you even listen to Sublime?” It wasn’t meant to sound so snarky but he felt that he needed a reason for staring at her chest so long.

She went on for a while about ‘not being a fake fan,’ and listed off some songs that she liked, and he watched as she twirled her hair in her fingers. 

“Come with me to brush my teeth,” she said after a moment. 

Sandor followed her to the bathroom with the toothbrush that Ned gave him. It felt a bit peculiar, as she bent over the sink, to recall how he’d finished himself off in here. He took the purple toothbrush out of the packaging and grabbed the toothpaste from the little bird. 

_Charcoal toothpaste_. He wasn’t sure why he expected any less. 

While he was concentrating on the gray foam over his teeth— _Oh fuck, my retainer._ If he’d had any insight in sleeping out of his own bed tonight, he would’ve packed a bag but for now, his teeth would have to wait until tomorrow night. His gaze flickered down to Sansa to see her staring back at him. Her teeth were gray as well and she smiled deviously when her elbow collided with Sandor’s, causing the bristles to jerk out of his mouth and spread minty paste all over his cheek. 

She snagged his upper gum along the way and honestly, it hurt, but he didn’t want her to know because she was likely to feel bad about it. If he did the same thing back to her, it’d be his luck that she’d end up with some sort of cut or bruise for the next week to remind her of his gracelessness. Instead, he ran the toothbrush over his lips and kissed her cheek. As he expected, a gray pucker mark was left beside her nose. 

She screwed up her face. “Sandor! Ew!” 

He laughed and rinsed out his mouth while she rubbed the toothpaste away with a rag. She rinsed her own mouth as well, and then her cheek, and pushed him out of the bathroom. 

He took off his jeans and set them on the floor at the foot of the bed. Proper nightwear was preferable but jeans were not an option. Too scratchy and stiff. They were probably just the right thing to conceal a morning erection, but that was a later-problem. 

“I’m so tired. Are you tired?” She turned down the blankets on her bed, a nest that resembled the one she’d made of his own bed, and climbed in. 

Sandor nodded and climbed in after her. “Yeah. I’m tired.” He wondered if he should tell her that he was asleep two hours ago when she called him. 

“And _cold_! Come here,” she said, stretching her arms out to envelop him. 

It’s true, her room was freezing. It was no wonder she had so many blankets. He imagined himself very boyfriendly keeping her warm. Surely this was one of the requirements of being a _boyfriend_ , was it not? If they were in a _relationship_ , he could keep her warm all the time. 

The little bird showered his cheek with kisses. If her kisses were going to be her offering for their... _relationship_ , then Sandor would be more than happy to accept. 

She wriggled her knee between his and pulled him close around the waist. Her hands appeared in his hair, tugged on his ears, scratched his neck and she started to whisper all sorts of things— And he wasn’t sure, but they kind of sounded like... _you’re so amazing_ and _beautiful_ and for a long moment he thought she must’ve been talking about herself... until she said _his_ name. 

“Sandor?” 

He _mhmm_ ’d, his cheek against the pillow and Sansa‘s face right above his. 

Her presence was very confusing to his body. His heartbeat was both speeding up and slowing down at the feel of her and it was extremely hard to focus with her scent engulfing him. _There it is_. The fantasies of her sweet aroma dominating his apartment were suddenly no longer necessary because he was _here_ and she was _surrounding_ him. 

He considered dully that there was no way she’d want to live in his gross apartment, and wondered what other scenarios he could materialize for their living together. Anywhere that she existed, she could count Sandor in. 

“I’m really happy that we met,” she said, running her fingers through his hair. 

Sandor smiled unwillingly at her charm. “Me too,” he grumbled sleepily. He pulled her against his chest and she purred and he was up for a very sleepless night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took soooo much more time to write than I was expecting it to. There were so many decisions— like whether I wanted them to sleep at Sansa’s house or Sandor’s apartment, whether he should’ve had a drink or not, whether— you know. All of that. It was kind of a weird chapter to write so I hope it wasn’t boring to read. 
> 
> I have very specific plans for next chapter and it _should_ be the last of part one. Thank you for reading!


	6. Remember?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowwww this took a long time to write. Sorry about the wait! I thought that “coronacation” would make me write more efficiently but maybe not. I wish AO3 had stories so i could post you guys some updates! But alas. 
> 
> I basically just reapplied Sandor’s burn story to a modern setting. I didn’t have the book in hand, but I’ve read the book chapter at least a dozen times and some parts have just stuck. 
> 
> Enjoy!

It was the first time he had ever shared a bed with anyone and despite his hypothesis that Sansa’s touch would ease him during the night, Sandor slept quite terribly. Every moment that they spent together was wonderful and sleep shouldn’t have been any different, but the calmness that she brought him while he was conscious didn’t transfer over to sleep.

He found that it was very _difficult_ to sleep passively with someone he wanted to fuck. In his own bed he would think about Sansa until he fell asleep and if he was lucky, she’d be in his dreams as well. But she was _everywhere_ here: the _room_ was hers, the _bed_ was hers, the _blankets and pillows that smelled exactly like_ she _did_ were hers and they were all engulfing him. 

And shouldn’t partnered sleeping have been an opportunity for extended cuddling? He had this idea that they would be cuddling all night, but every time he woke he was separate from her again. During the lucid moments, Sandor would turn back and weave himself between her arms but even still he woke shortly after to find that they’d broken apart. 

It was hot as hell, too. To watch a movie in a nest made of a dozen blankets was one thing, but to sleep under the pile of them? He hoped that this behavior wasn’t customary for her, not if they would be sharing a bed more often. It took little time to overheat, and he wasn’t so sure how aghast she would be if he pushed off some of the blankets. He didn’t want to offensively manipulate her nest but when he gauged her temperature with the back of his hand, she was burning up as well.

And the truth was, Sansa was having quite the night herself. She shifted restlessly right alongside him. Since one side of her bed was against a wall and Sandor was on the outside, she required his participation to retrieve her water bottle from the nightstand. Obviously she was quite parched because she nearly struck Sandor when he hesitated a moment in his fatigue.

She didn’t seem to have much of a problem with his presence in her bed though: Sansa attached to him like a sloth to a branch each time she woke to find that they weren’t already connected. Her sleep troubles were likely to due with her drinking but seeing as Sandor didn’t have anything, that possibility was ruled out for him. 

And if this mystery problem that was keeping him from sleeping soundly persisted, then there was going to be a fucking problem because there was no way they were going to have two separate beds or some archaic bullshit like that if they were to live together. No, that was not a consideration. If anything, he could buy some melatonin. 

As was usually the case, Sandor’s cock woke up before he did. And, again, the unusual part was the shared bed... 

And... how much harm would be done if Sansa didn’t notice? Surely she wouldn’t, she was sleeping like a literal rock: so still that Sandor thought of checking her pulse a coupe of times.

He bent his hips back slightly so that she wouldn’t be able to feel his hardness if she woke up suddenly. Her hands were curled together against Sandor’s chest and her face was tilted up, so close to his that he could see her eyelashes twitching.

Her t-shirt was see-through in the sunlight. A soft, ultra-thin material that allowed her petite breasts to point out proudly. And while seeing her nipple through the fabric didn’t exactly calm his erection, it wasn’t as _sexy_ as it was... well, cute.

Sansa groaned and brought a hand to her eyes in an uncoordinated manner that had her practically slapping herself in the face. Sandor snapped his gaze away from her chest quick enough that she probably didn’t notice when her eyes finally blinked open, but there was still a lingering guilt at seeing something that wasn’t meant for him.

She patted his upper arm. “Water?”

Sandor turned and reached back for her water bottle. She drank as much as her body would let her at once, lidded it, and pushed her face into the blankets.

“Can you shut the curtains?” The tone of her voice suggested that it was more of an order than a request.

Sandor sprung from the bed, ready to execute each of her commands as quickly and efficiently as he was capable. “Oh— yeah, of course.” 

However, his weight left the bed so fast that the mattress sprung and jerked Sansa’s head. She squeezed her temples and made a noise of displeasure. 

Never mind the sound that his oversized feet made when they collided with her hardwood floor.

“Uh.... _sorry_ ,” he said, frozen in place like a rabbit before a fox.

She didn’t say anything, just stretched her long limbs and curled up into a ball, keeping away from the sunlight.

“Uh... right.” Sandor raced over to the offensive window and shut her blackout curtains. The room darkened instantly and when he got back into the bed— carefully lowering himself so as not to knock her violently like before— her frame loosened into his front.

“Those curtains are really effective,” he said. It was true: with them closed, it looked like nighttime all over again.

“I feel like shit,” Sansa said. It wasn’t exactly a response to his assessment but Sandor could appreciate her directness.

“You have a hangover,” he said. He traced light lines on the back of her neck, occasionally bumping into the half-inch hemming of her baggy t-shirt. “Have you had one before?”

“Not as bad as this,” she grumbled, her eyes shut tightly.

“You drank a lot last night, little bird. Remember?”

“Kind of.”

“You had two cocktails and a shot, that I know of, and you wanted to have more. Unfortunately you called _me_ and once I got there, I sufficiently destroyed all the fun you were having.”

Sansa shook her head— but then she remembered that moving felt terrible and huffed irritably at herself. “Sandor, I don’t mean to be rude but my head hurts so freaking badly and can you please just shut up?” She clamped her hands above her ears and pressed hard enough to make her skin wrinkle dramatically.

“Uh... yeah... of course.” He wasn’t sure if he should leave as well, or... It didn’t hurt _that_ much, because he knew she was miserable and he’d chewed many people out for daring to speak to him during a hangover. And it certainly wasn’t the first time someone had dismissed him.

The part that did hurt, however, was that she had said it, the same little bird who always seemed to be gluing his broken pieces back together. Miserable morning grumbles or not, she had said it and he was reminded that every ounce of his self-security was in her hands.

Sansa didn’t get her peace and quiet though, because not a minute after he’d spoken, the little wolf burst through the door with a sound that definitely insulted the headache.

“It’s time for breakfast,” she hollered, sauntering over to the foot of the bed and even having the audacity to grab Sansa’s toes and yank them.

“Arya!” Sansa turned away from Sandor and pulled her knees to her chest. “Don’t touch me!”

“Don’t shoot the messenger,” Arya said innocently. “Dad wants you downstairs.”

Sansa covered her eyes with her forearm. “Get out.”

Arya skipped out of the room.

Sansa turned her forehead into Sandor’s chest and huffed, “She didn’t even close the door!”

“Little bird? I think we have to go downstairs,” he suggested.

She didn’t respond immediately, but not five minutes later they were brushing their teeth together in the upstairs bathroom.

When the pair of them got downstairs, Sandor was unenthused to see that there was a set table waiting for them, along with a kitchen full of people— probably all Starks— some of which he had yet to meet. _Yay_.

The situation reminded him of those awkward scenes in movies where girls would take their boyfriends home to meet the family, but he didn’t expect it to be so sudden. In fact, he was hoping it would never happen at all.

“Oh look who’s finally woken up,” Catelyn said, turning to look at her oldest daughter from the bottom step. She was removing toast from the toaster, setting it onto a plate and reloading the machine with new bread slices.

Ned was parked in front of the stovetop, which was almost overwhelmed with pans. He was using a wooden spoon to push homefries around. Scrambled eggs were cooking in another pan, and there was bacon on the back burner. Naturally, the scent of bacon swirled in the room.

Sansa took Sandor’s hand, encouraging him forward as he’d been trying to think of solutions to escape the social situation. He bit his upper lip and allowed her to lead him up to her mother.

Once there, Sansa let go of his hand to hug her mom.

“Sandor,” said Ned, turning his head slightly to look at him between cooking. “If I knew you needed something to wear, I would’ve given you some clothes,” he gestured to Sandor’s jeans.

“Didn’t want to bother you,” Sandor shrugged.

“Alright. Well, for next time— If you stay over again, that is, we have spare clothes.” Ned nodded the side of his head to the two other men at the table that Sandor was loathe to meet.

Sansa reached for his arm then, cupping the inside of his elbow and pulling him into the dining room where a man was showing some sort of game to Rickon at the foot of the table. Arya was looking admirably at a different man seated next to her. Bran was across from her and they were discussing sports, it seemed.

Now he wished he’d asked Ned for those pajamas; every other person in the damned room, including Cat and Ned, was dressed in sleepwear. As if he needed another way to stick out like a sore thumb.

Sansa, with Sandor still attached to her at the hand, bent to nudge the little wolf on the shoulder.

“Arya,” she said, “Would you mind choosing another seat? I have to sit next to Sandor.”

There were no possibilities for them to sit next to each other in the current arrangement, but that she was creating a scene to have him next to her... well...

Sandor swallowed anxiously. There’d been many, many times where people had acted as though he was invisible and this was the first time he wished he really was.

Arya glanced at Sandor coldly, turned back to Sansa and sneered. She was opening her mouth to say something that probably going to be lethal but the curly-haired man next to her threw an arm over her shoulder and pulled her attention away. He whispered something indistinguishable into her ear that made her blush and giggle and then the little wolf was passively climbing from her chair and running off into the living room.

Sansa welcomed herself into the seat that her sister abandoned and extended her arms to embrace this _Don Juan_.

In the time that they were hugging, Sandor settled into the seat beside her.

“Jon, this is Sandor,” she said, gesturing to Sandor with her manicured hand.

“Ah, your boyfriend.” Jon smiled. It was obviously self-induced, but he still managed to make it genuine.

Jon’s eyes were fixed on Sandor’s, which was often the case when he met someone new. Few people had the nerve to stare directly at his intriguing scar tissue. Most of the time they just acted out their best smile, did their absolute best not to stray from his gray irises and ended the conversation as abruptly as possible. They didn’t understand the magnetism of a stare, that he could still feel their eyes stiff on his cheek when he turned away. 

It was evident that Jon and Sansa were raised in the same house and also evident that he didn’t share both of her parents. He was well-groomed and well-mannered, extending his hand for Sandor to shake and making enough small talk with him. He was just as polite as the little bird— he just didn’t look like her. At all, really.

Robb, on the other hand was, despite Sandor’s best efforts to avoid another unfamiliar social encounter, introduced next. The handshake was more awkward that time since they both had to lean halfway over the table to meet each other’s palms.

The entire ordeal was unsettling for Sandor. The burned side of his face itched madly while Sansa’s older brothers engaged him in conversation and he fought every urge to scratch it furiously.

The truth was that he could hardly bear so many people looking at him at once. It was like walking around with a big zit, or like... _Well_ , or like _half his face_ was covered in hideous scarring.

“So where are you from?” asked Robb between thumb-warring with Bran.

“Oh... um, here,” Sandor said, rubbing the underside of the wooden dining table with the pad of his thumb as he liked to do in his own flat. “I’ve lived here all my life.”

Robb nodded. He seemed rightfully unsure of how to continue a conversation in which he had Sandor as a partner. “So... what does your dad do?”

Sandor scraped his fingernail into the wood grain. “He’s passed.”

“I’m so sorry,” Robb said as he glanced at his own father, cooking in the kitchen. “And your mother?”

“Passed as well.”

Sandor watched as Robb’s Adam’s apple bulged with a gulp.

Arya came back with a hefty, swiveling desk chair. She positioned the chair between Jon and Robb and climbed onto the black leather. It didn’t quite match the previous dining aesthetic. She did her best to ignore his existence, which Sandor didn’t truly mind all that much. It was one less pair of eyes on his face.

Robb tried again, “Do you have... any siblings?”

Sandor shook his head.

Sansa turned and gave him a funny look. She searched for his hand under the table, which he surrendered to her. He’d told her about a brother and she’d clearly not forgotten, but she didn’t say anything, just squeezed his hand.

“Wow,” said Robb, combing his thick hair in his hand. “And—“

“Robb,” Sansa interjected. Sandor couldn’t see the look she was giving her brother since her head was turned away, though he sensed its sternness.

She changed the subject and they started discussing something else entirely unrelated to Sandor. It gave him the opportunity to sit still and comfortable, and gauge everything that was happening around him while Sansa played with his fingers.

He watched Catelyn pick up the pieces of toast from the plate and cut them in half diagonally. When the bread caught the light, it glistened with buttery shine.

Ned said something to his wife that Sandor couldn’t make out over Arya’s complaint ( _he_ broke _my lacrosse stick!_ ) and Catelyn brought two ceramic plates to the counter beside him. She put her arm around his waist and pecked him on the cheek, and together they transferred the food from the pans.

Sandor glanced at the woven placemat in front of him. It was complete with a heavy white plate, a fork and knife and a little napkin. There was an empty, mint-colored mug in the front right decorated with a swirling, yet geometrical, black pattern.

The rectangular wooden table was always clear when Sandor worked inside the house, empty of placemats and glasses and sparkling utensils. This change of setting was unnatural and a little confusing for him.

Sandor’s mom died pretty early into his childhood and his dad was unequipped with most fatherly skills— And there wasn’t a single time he could recall eating a meal at a table with any of them. Therefore the only environments where he witnessed this custom were on the TV or other medias.

“Sansa?” said Ned, “have you introduced Sandor to Robb and Jon?” Ned was placing two pitchers, one of water and one of orange juice, onto a cushy mat on the table.

Sansa nodded and squeezed his hand under the table.

Ned looked at Sandor, gesturing to his oldest sons, “They’re here every weekend. I’m surprised that—“

“Ned?” Catelyn called, “Can you come help me with this?”

He rushed over.

Sansa pushed her hand, where it was intertwined with Sandor’s, onto his knee. The tips of her fingers _just_ _brushed_ the inside of his leg. He was sure that nobody else at the table noticed, but it was enough to make him scoot his chair in to conceal it completely. She seemed to take this as encouragement and ran her fingers deeper towards his thigh.

It was casual, innocent enough that Sandor wasn’t quite sure if she was really trying to give him a hard-on at her dining table while her parents were ten feet away... or if she was just being sweet. He wasn’t exactly positive that caressing the inside of a man’s leg fell into the _sweet_ category but he didn’t have enough experience to know for himself.

Whatever her intentions may‘ve been, her fingertips on his leg were sending all sorts of mixed signals and he placed his hand over hers.

She furrowed her brows and tried to withdraw her hand but he held her still, hoping she would know that he wanted her to stay, just not to move.

“If any of you would like coffee,” Catelyn began from the other side of the room, “there’s a pot over here.” She pointed her finger towards a machine with a shining coffee pot filled halfway. To the right there were a few small, ceramic jars— _cream and sweetener perhaps?_ The whole setup was overtop a green knit placemat.

He was content for a moment and then Ned and Catelyn were setting food onto the table and Sandor slipped her hand back between the chairs.

Ned sat at the head of the table with Sandor at one corner and his wife at the other.

The whole meal was rather awkward. The food was more delicious than anything he’d ever had growing up and it made him irritatingly envious of the _little_ Starks, who ate like this every meal.

And he’d been hungry as hell, with a bottomless pit for a stomach, yet too nervous to get himself a ration that he would’ve liked. The orange juice was sweet and caloric enough to make him feel a bit fuller though; he must’ve had three glasses.

Catelyn encouraged him to eat more, in front of everyone, which did absolutely nothing to foster his self-consciousness. It did, however, get him more food.

Sandor needed his right hand to eat and he’d had to lift it from Sansa’s left, but she didn’t withdraw. She kept her fingers against his knee, her touch so gentle over the denim, and it was the lone comfort at the Starks’ table.

They tried to include Sandor in their conversation— especially the little bird. Every chance she got, she would drag him in and nudge him to talk about something: his work on their house, his artistry, the music he enjoyed... But he mostly shrugged away her invitations to speak.

Sandor knew she was doing it to make him feel more welcome, to make him feel _one_ with them... but she was asking him to share things with her family that he wasn’t even sure he was ready to share with _her_. Silly things, they were, really... but nonetheless they were thoughts and feelings he wasn’t exactly knowledgeable on how to express.

When it was over and they’d cleaned up, Sansa made herself a new glass of water and invited Sandor to go back upstairs with her.

As he walked behind her up the staircase, he caught a glimpse of Robb and Jon sniggering to each other and couldn’t help suspect that they were laughing at him.

“You didn’t have to be so quiet,” said Sansa as she pushed her bedroom door open. “My brothers are harmless.”

Sandor bit his lip.

She’d put on this thin blue robe before they went down for breakfast, one that made her look like a sleepy princess from a fairytale, and now she was taking it off again. She undid the knot at her waist and let it fall to the floor before she kicked it at the wall and then she was in her pink shorts all over again, beckoning him to her bed.

That she’d put on this layer to conceal from everyone else but not from him made Sandor feel weird and possessive. Her own family had obviously seen her figure before but Sandor felt like he was being let it on a secret anyway. He followed her to the bed and rolled onto his back.

“Why were you?” Sansa said. She crossed her legs and sat by his hip.

Sandor shrugged. “I wasn’t expecting all of those people to be there,” he said.

“ _Those people_ are my _family_ , Sandor.”

He scratched his scalp inelegantly and his neck started to cramp, so he slumped his back up the headboard. She seemed a bit more upset about his lack of verbal participation that he’d expected.

“Exactly, they’re your family,” said Sandor. “They don’t know me. And I don’t want to— Never mind. Next time I’ll... um... try to be more _cooperative_.”

She put her hand on his belly, gently drawing her fingers inwards and back out. His navy blue shirt was ragged with nearly half a dozen little holes forming in the cotton.

He wished he would’ve given himself more time to dress before meeting Sansa yesterday night. Or in general, he wished that he would’ve purchased new clothing in the last year. Impressing girls (and their families) was a new concept and he was still getting used to it.

“Sandor...” Sansa swallowed. “You know that— They’ll like you, Sandor. They already do. And even if they _didn’t_... you know that, well, that their opinions would never change how _I_ feel about you... right?”

The sweetness of the orange juice had fled from his tongue and now all that was left was the bitterness. He felt slimy, inside and out.

It seemed like she always wanted to talk about things like this. Sandor supposed that the conversations helped clear some of the confusion regarding their connection, but  it was so stressful when she asked him to talk about these topics. And it was a lie; she couldn’t guarantee that she would feel the same about him if her family decided that he wasn’t good enough for her. They meant far too much to her and he was an outsider.

Sansa shifted her weight into the hand on his stomach so that she could move closer to his face. She was in the perfect position to pet his middle and trace his sharp jaw.

She leaned in to kiss the corner of his mouth, dragging her hand from his belly to his chest. “Right...?”

If he was psychically capable of reciprocating her romantic promises then Sandor wouldn’t have been hesitant to chant them back at her. But instead, as usual, the sunkissed words clogged up in his throat.

He was adept at nodding though, so he did that. And then when the moment extended into an uncomfortable awkwardness, “I should probably be getting back to my apartment. Can you drive me to my car?”

It was evident that it wasn’t the response Sansa would’ve liked, but she gave him a forced little smile and rolled off of the bed.

“Yeah, you’re right I guess,” she said. “Let’s go.”

*****

She took that damned backpack with her into the car as if she was going somewhere. Sandor remembered that she took it everywhere— but just to go on a drive? Just to bring him to some random house to get his car?

He saw that she’d painted a sunflower onto the canvas bag. Acrylic, probably. He wondered what was inside; just her sketchbook?— Or the camera this time. Journal and pen, perhaps?

Sandor couldn’t bring himself to care enough about her bringing him to his car. She’d seen the ugly piece of shit anyway, couldn’t do that much more damage for her to see it again.

Like him, Sansa didn’t waste a moment connecting her phone to the car for music. The only difference was that her vehicle had a fancy touchscreen dashboard with a Bluetooth system that was compatible with her updated smartphone... while Sandor had an aux cord and a modern- _ish_ flip phone.

“I’m really sorry about the way I spoke to you this morning,” she admitted as she drove. “I know I felt terrible, but it wasn’t your fault. You were just being sweet.” 

“Oh. That’s fine,” Sandor said. The moment had passed hours ago and her apology came off a bit unwarranted. 

“Do you know what I’m talking about?” she asked, browns knitted together.

“Yeah,” said Sandor. “You told me to shut up.” 

She bit her upper lip. “But... are we okay? Do you forgive me?” 

“Yeah.” 

She spent a couple of minutes speechless and eventually put on some music. Her voice was that of an angel as she sang along but Sandor didn’t dare join her, despite the thick compulsion to let his soul loose as she’d let hers.

The stereo changed to something that she obviously didn’t want to hear because she grabbed her phone and started scrolling through her mix.

“Let me,” said Sandor, encouraging her to watch the road even though he probably would’ve broken the same driving rules.

She surrendered her phone and he clicked the _Next_ button until she gave him her approval.

It seemed like the little bird thought it was the summer already; she changed from little pink shorts into a vertically-striped jumpsuit. It was tight at the waist with excessively baggy legs. It wasn’t fit for the cold, rainy weather they were having.

She dressed like it was eighty-five out all the time, free of regret despite her rebellious shivers.

Her arms were bare leading into her hands. Both were dedicated to the wheel but that didn’t stop Sandor from wanting to take one as she had the previous night.

He could hardly believe that she’d been so bold in her drunkenness last night. Similarly, it was a bit strange that she could be so different now... so much more reserved. Nothing like the dauntless little bird who drove her toes into the side of his cock in a restaurant booth. Nothing like the little bird who chewed up their waitress for looking at him the wrong way.

It was still quite hard for Sandor to let himself open up to the idea that she actually felt the things for him that she said she did, but her behavior was comfortingly persuasive.

_Oh fuck it_. He reached for her right hand and sought her permission to take it from the wheel.

“You were crazy last night,” Sandor said. “Remember?” He studied the texture of her fingernails, and then her knuckles.

Sansa seemed justifiably uncomfortable with this admission. “A little... I remember getting ready with my friend at her apartment and I remember driving to the house... And I remember calling you.” Sansa withdrew her hand momentarily to turn down the music a bit, and then found Sandor’s again. “Some guy asked me if... but Shae told him _very colorfully_ to... and then she wouldn’t let me drift very far... and you showed up and...”

Sandor was happy to see that the ring on her wrist was gone... until he realized it was the other wrist that he’d crushed in his fingers. The unpleasant memory reminded him to be gentle as he played with her hand.

“I picked you up,” he reminded. “You wanted pancakes. We went to IHOP.”

Sansa required her hand to get the blinker on, but she returned to Sandor’s fingers when she could. “Oh... right,” she said.

“You were quite rude with the waitress,” Sandor teased.

“No I wasn’t!”

Sandor chuckled. “Alright, alright. I’m being a bit unfair.” He turned her hand over to look at the inside of her palm. “You put our waitress in her place.”

Sansa groaned, obviously having difficulty accepting that she could’ve been impolite with a stranger.

“You said—“

“Stop! Don’t tell me, Sandor, I don’t want to hear it!”

“Fine,” he surrendered. There would be other chances.

He told her when they had made it to the general region of his car that he could find it himself, but Sansa refused to drop him off on the side of the road.

_She’s already seen the damn car_ , Sandor reminded himself, but it didn’t stop him from feeling all the more anxious as they got closer and closer.

He directed her towards his car, which was unsurprisingly _exactly_ where he’d left it the night before and in the same questionable condition. She didn’t say anything about it; none of the insults he’d combatted in his nightmares. In defense, she had already seen it... but...

Sandor pulled her hand in front of him and pecked her as efficiently as he could on the knuckles. Wordless, he released her just as soon and stepped out of the car.

“Wait!” yelped Sansa, unbuckling her seatbelt and scrambling out of her vehicle.

She jogged up to Sandor and locked her hands together around his neck in an effort to mechanically pull his head down towards her. It was a fine way to make up for their height difference, he thought.

Sansa glanced up at his face, just two inches above hers, with wrinkled brows and pouting lips.

“You weren’t even going to say goodbye,” she said with obvious disapproval. Her voice had fallen in a way that didn’t make him feel very good. She sounded sad and it was confusing, and a bit exhausting really.

Sandor didn’t like her eyes so heavy on his face. They were so close... and while it warmed his limbs to see her blue-gray eyes and their narrow indigo flecks, he felt monstrous over her; marred, mutilated flesh, twisted smile and colorless eyes. Oh not completely colorless— _gray_. Gray eyes. 

_He hadn’t said_ goodbye. It wasn’t something he would’ve expected her to be so upset about, to be truthful. Not when there were so many _other_ things to be disappointed by: like the edge of poverty that he teetered off of... his unsatisfactory looks and unnatural behavior... his violent mood changes and inability to verbally express anything that he was feeling... And she’d chosen to be upset that he hadn’t said _goodbye_?

Sandor was afraid to breathe, so he didn’t. He contemplated how this might go while waiting for her to make another move. When her lips touched his, Sandor could hardly get himself together enough to shut his eyes. She did everything with unhesitant liberty and he was as admiring of her as he was envious.

Each time she touched him it was almost unbearably overwhelming and this was no exception. His heart was working hard in his chest as if he’d just finished a marathon. Each nerve ending felt acute in his fingertips— his fingertips, which were itching in the chill air and begging his consent to touch her.

Sansa broke the connection of their lips and used the leverage around his head to pull his neck against her nose. The stationary position was a bit awkward but he wasn’t exactly sure where to put his hands and took too long deciding.

Sandor could feel her breathe in and out through her nose against his neck. Her breathing patterns were deep, as though she was trying to smell him, to capture his scent as he’d have liked to capture hers.

His back was beginning to ache as it bent unnaturally at her convenience.

Sansa pulled away from his neck and gave Sandor a quick peck on the lips and Sandor shut his eyes to receive her. Despite the chill, he felt as if he was being boiled alive, like there’d be new scars on his skin when he undressed for the night.

When she finally released him, her eyes were dark with the rush of her dominance. “That’s how you say _goodbye_ ,” she said, and turned away cheerily.

Sandor gulped and scratched himself behind the ear unsteadily. “Um... Sansa?” He cracked his knuckles individually. “Do you want to come over...?”

Her eyes, along with her poise, became softer and relaxed. And then her face spread into a bright smile and it was so unexpectedly rewarding. A weight lifted from Sandor’s chest at the awareness that he’d finally done something right.

Sansa bit her lip. “Now?” she asked.

Sandor nodded. “Only if you want to.”

She returned the nod. “I do,” the little bird said. Her expression drifted a bit... which made Sandor weary. “I actually can’t come over _right now_ but I can come over tonight if that works?”

He nodded. “Yeah that works.” He set his hands delicately on her waist and leaned down to kiss her. His nose bumped against hers awkwardly and when he pulled back, he stepped on her foot and she yelped.

_Fuck me, not again_. Sandor put his hands out in horror as she curled her toes inwards and staggered on the cement.

“I’m—“

“It’s fine,” said Sansa, going pink. She put her hand out to brush against his briefly. “Really, it’s fine.” She took the necessary steps to her car door. “I’ll text you when I’m on my way?”

Sandor nodded as he backed away to his vehicle, watching her start up her car and smile at him.

As soon as he was in his seat and she was up the road, he leaned forward onto the steering wheel and rubbed the pressure from his eyes. _Why the fuck does this always happen to me? Clumsy bastard._

He hadn’t really thought the invitation through before spewing it out, but spending more time with her surely wouldn’t be a bad thing, would it? And what would they do? Sandor wouldn’t be entirely opposed to another movie; it felt so good when she held him. It forced all of these warm, safe-and-sound sensations to bubble overtop his skin and, in a way, tire him out. It felt very much like intoxication... which made sense, because Sansa was a drug of her own.

It also made his cock spring up when they were in the right position but the solutions to that ailment were much more intuitive than the emptiness that her absence left behind. She was always heavy on his mind— whether he was asleep or awake, busy or bored, alone or in a crowd.

_Damn, she really is like a drug_. How long would they have to wait before moving in together, again?

*****

Sansa leapt through his building’s entrance with her canvas bag unsurprisingly slung over one shoulder as he held the door out for her at nearly 6:30.

He followed her up the stairs to his level and she invited herself through his run-down door.

“Did you eat?” asked Sansa as she dropped her shoes by the door and sauntered to set her bag on the counter.

“Not yet,” said Sandor.

She glared at him, “Have you eaten since you left my house, Sandor?” Her voice rang with a tone in which he was unfamiliar. Concern.

“No, but I will,” he replied with the implication that obviously he’d be feeding himself.

The truth was that he’d been driving around all day, ever since he parted with Sansa. He went crazy waiting for her in his apartment the first time and thought that driving around might pass the time. And as for not eating, well, his hunger had been drowned out a bit by the nerves. He’d arrived a little more than twenty minutes ago to make sure his apartment was acceptable for her company. 

“Are you sick?” asked Sansa, frozen in place beside the counter.

“No, little bird,” Sandor replied firmly. “Everything is okay.”

“Have you eaten all of the pad thai leftovers?”

“No,” Sandor said and gestured to his fridge. “They’re still in there.”

“I can make heat them up for you if you want,” she offered.

He made his way over to her and pulled her hand into his, shaking his head. “Everything is fine.”

“Okay,” she said with questioning eyes. “But you’re going to eat before I leave.”

Sandor shrugged, “Fine by me.”

He produced two glasses of ice water (and lemon at the little bird’s request) alongside a bowl of grapes and they migrated to the “living room” which consisted of his couch and a small coffee table.

He waited for her to sit... but she seemed to be waiting for him to sit, so Sandor slumped into the left cushion, feet on the floor. She sat in the middle and crossed her legs toward him.

“These grapes are really good,” Sansa said. “Did you get them from like, some sort of farmer’s market?”

Sandor chuckled. “If you consider the Co-Op a farmer’s market.”

“These are from the Co-Op?” she said in a astonishment, studying the grape’s integrity. “Wow.”

When she’d finished with the grapes she bit down on the flesh of the lemon and wrapped her lips around the peel, twisting her face into a goofy, lemony smile. Sandor grabbed his own lemon wedge and tried to mimic her.

He bit down on the interior juicy section and the tang overwhelmed his tongue. He spat the lemon back into his hand and screwed up his face at the sourness. “How do you do that? Holy shit, it’s _terrible_ ,” he whined and rubbed his tongue back and forth against the roof of his mouth to disperse the awful sourness.

Sansa deposited her lemon wedge into the newly-empty bowl of grapes and leaned over Sandor to kiss him. The tang tasted much better off of her lips, much sweeter, truthfully.

The position, however, was very awkward. Sandor’s feet were still planted to the floor, legs apart, arms outstretched— basically taking up a whole bunch of space— while Sansa knelt over him sideways. It wasn’t any way to kiss.

He pushed her gently at the shoulders. “Wait, wait,” he urged. Sandor lifted his feet and turned to make himself cross-legged on the couch like her. He tilted his face forward for more of her kisses, but she put a hand on his shoulder instead.

Sansa swallowed and glanced down at his thighs. She reached to undo the cross of his legs, pulling them out along the couch. She was silent and concentrated as she carried one of her knees to the other side of his hips and lowered herself against his jeans in a straddle.

Her confidence was as arousing as it was infuriating. _How could she be so bold?_ It seemed as if she simply _did_ whatever she wanted without any fear that he would reject her. The thought of her rejecting _him_ was so terrifying that he could hardly consider trying to seduce her without having an anxiety attack. 

Sandor released a wobbling breath as her weight settled on his groin. She let out a similar noise that indicated she liked it as well. His cock wasn’t hesitant in reacting to the heat emanating from between her thighs.

Sansa dropped one hand to the center of his chest and the other to his neck. She ground her hips into his thigh and tilted her head back. It was the perfect opportunity, given her closed eyes, to stare at the way her breasts fit into the bust of her top.

He was still rather afraid to touch her. Where was he supposed to put his hands? Where did she want him to touch her and did he have to ask her to find out? She certainly knew where to touch him and he hadn’t needed to tell her... 

It always seemed like... right before they spent time together, Sandor thought he knew what he was supposed to do. He thought that their intimacy would be spelled out very clearly and he wouldn’t be confused about any of it. And every time they _did_ spend time together and every time she fucking touched him... It seemed so intuitive for her. She never had to ask any questions, she just seemed to know exactly where he liked it. Why wasn’t it the same for him? 

The fronts of his thighs were burning, along with his lower back, but neither was so unpleasant that he would’ve moved from the damned couch. The only part that was really uncomfortable was the lack of support behind him. The armrest of the couch ended in the center of his back so he was actively keeping himself upright.

Sansa sat back on his hips. “It’s a bit cramped here,” she pointed out with flushed cheeks and dark, heavy eyes. “Do you want to move to your bedroom?”

The concept that they could be in his bedroom right now sans clothing was very fascinating to his sex organs, even if he had no idea what to do when they got there. He nodded instantaneously. She lifted herself off of him and they abandoned their glasses of water, empty bowl of grapes and lemon wedges.

Sandor flicked the light on.

It felt like a whole new experience just walking into his bedroom with a girl and an erection at the same time. It was like some sort of dream when she made herself comfortable on his bed— and it was more arousing that any porn video he’d ever seen. 

Sandor settled into the mattress timidly. He faced the headboard, which she was propped against, and prodded his thumbs in anticipation. 

Sansa pushed forward and leaned closer to him. She placed her hands on his upper thighs and he exhaled heavily as some of the pressure was released. Every time her body made contact with his, it felt like there was a fire inside of him being stoked.

She began licking a random spot on the unburnt side of his neck and when that alone no longer pleased her, she bit down on his flesh.

The graze of her tongue over his skin, where she’d sucked and sensitized it, was bittersweetly alarming. It would’ve been upon basic instinct to push her teeth away from where they rested over a vital artery but he wouldn’t have moved away had she set his bed aflame. Granted, it would’ve been the only fire he stuck around for.

Sandor let her push him to his back on the mattress. Without much hesitation, she wiggled a knee between his legs and straddled a thigh, covering his front with hers. He bucked his hips against her leg slowly, just enough to permit his erection some friction.

Sansa glanced down at where he was grinding against her thigh and giggled. She placed kisses overtop his parted lips and at the sensation, he felt as though his body had taken a fever. It was overwhelming and incredible and it made every muscle in his body ache. Was he doing the same for her? He couldn’t have been, he was hardly touching her. 

When she wove her narrow fingers into his hair and ran over the patch where no hair grew, Sandor shivered. Not because it hurt or tingled like it did in some of the less severe areas— for the flames had burned many sections of his skin to irreversible nerve damage— but because he knew what she was feeling, as he’d felt the same spot hundreds of times before. That part was rubbery and tough and unmoving, layered over with foul scar tissue. It was the same reason why he didn’t want her touching it at the salon. It was disgusting; undeserving of her attention. 

Whether it was from disgust at his disfigurement or surprise at his reaction, she pulled her fingers back.

“Oh!— I’m sorry! I forgot that you’re sensitive there,” Sansa yelped. It was the lie he told her at the hairdressers; he wasn’t sensitive at all right there.

In truth, he’d forgotten that he even told her such nonsense until she’d brought up. Sandor froze. He wished that he could bring them back twenty seconds. A moment ago, the only think he could think about was bobbing in his pants but now that seemed secondary.

He shrugged himself up on his elbows and then moved to a seat, backing away from her on the bed.

“That wasn’t... uh...” Sandor ran a finger under his jawline. “It’s not actually sensitive there,” he said. “I can’t actually feel anything in that spot, to tell you the truth.” He could feel a quiver forming in his lip and he bit it. 

Sansa furrowed her brows. 

They were both frozen awkwardly and he really wished he could’ve taken everything back. The lie, the shiver, the admission of the lie. Couldn’t they just go back to what they’d been doing? It all felt so good...

”It’s not? But you said... remember?”

Sandor curled his legs back inwards and folded his arms. He was shivering... Was it cold? A moment ago it’d felt like he was on fire. And the lip quiver was no longer able to be suppressed by his teeth. 

Sansa leaned forward and rubbed his arm firmly. “It’s okay, Sandor,” she said. “I’m not upset, okay?”

“It’s not sensitive there,” Sandor began impulsively, voice shaking, and brought her hand by his cheek. “But it _is_ sensitive here,” he guided her fingertips over a section beneath his eye, over the line where his healthy skin met scar tissue.

“Sandor, you don’t have to...”

Crying really helped an erection go down, but he’d already known that. The tears hadn’t come yet but they were never far when he began talking about his past.

“And here.” He let her feel another piece of him on the side of his nose where the scarring was rather thin. He gestured to the side of his cheek with his free hand as a comparison. “It’s like leather right here, like armor. Can’t feel a damned thing. But here,” he emphasized where she touched his nose, “it’s thinned out here. Too damaged for healthy skin to grow but not damaged enough to go numb.”

The lighting was terrible but he could still tell that Sansa had gone pale. His skin was slimy where he’d been sweating and he was sure he looked like a madman. 

“The nerves are fucked up,” he explained. “It confuses the shit out of my brain when it’s touched— gets lost in translation and sends spikes in random body parts. I wonder if not treating it would’ve destroyed the nerves so that the feeling was even everywhere. Don’t know much about things like that— You know that my own father wasn’t even going to bring me to the hospital? He was trying to bring me back into the house, probably had some bandaids he thought would _patch me up_. If it weren’t for the neighbors, I’d probably be dead. Guess it was my screams that lured them in.” He laughed, though it wasn’t because he found himself humorous.

It felt like a good time to shut the fuck up, because he was ready to let her hold him now. And maybe later she would take off her clothes like he’d imagined, like last night, and they might pick up where he was positive they’d left off— but something within him compelled Sandor to spill his guts. He couldn’t stop himself, she made him want to tell her everything.

“It was my brother,” Sandor said, even though she hadn’t asked. “I was just playing with one of his toys, I... Our dad always gave him more attention than me. He always gave Gregor everything he wanted, but me, I wasn’t good enough. I just wanted to play with one of his toys, I was just a boy— and he wasn’t even _using_ it. He was twice my age and my dad thought he would like it, but he didn’t. At least, I thought he didn’t.

“I was playing with it outside, by myself. It was a knight. A really beautiful wooden knight, hand carved and painted. I was just playing with it and he came out. It was a spring day. Pretty warm. There’d been a fire going in the pit, but by then it was just coals.

“He came over and I had the toy in my hand. He didn’t say anything. He picked me up and carried me to the pit like a lap dog and held my face against the coals.” Sandor took a pause. He’d gotten so into the story, he didn’t realize he’d started to cry until Sansa starting wiping the gathered tears off of his jaw. “It took three men to pull him off of me and I don’t even think my dad was one of them. The only thing he really cared about was our reputation. He told everyone that I’d been playing with _candles_ in my room. That my fucking bedding caught fire. I don’t know what happened to the wooden knight.”

Sansa didn’t say anything for a very long time. He was waiting patiently for the reassuring words that seemed so natural to her, but it seemed that he’d finally made her speechless. She went through a lot of different phases of crying and shaking and grabbing onto him fiercely.

She scooted forward and wrapped her limbs around him like an octopus, nearly taking his breath away. She was still crying, her blue eyes had gone green and puffy— and how could she not? She was the most empathetic person he knew and she cared for him, for incomprehensible reasons.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, and kept saying over and over. “It’s not your fault, you know that at least, right?”

“It’s not my fault, but that doesn’t change much does it? I look half monstrous no matter whose _fault_ it is. Ugly fucking bastard.”

Sansa drew him back by a fistful of his own hair. She was crying harder now. “Don’t say that!” she growled with a coldness in her eyes and suddenly he felt how he imagined their waitress from last night felt. “It won’t make you feel any better about yourself and it’s not true.”

Sandor scoffed and she put a finger to his lips.

“You’re not ugly. Not at all.” Sansa dragged her fingers over the leathery skin of his cheek. She kissed the bridge of his nose and he winced. “You’ll never be ugly, Sandor. And I never want to hear you say it again.”

Sandor shook his head and squeezed his eyes together as if he was scared to look at her. He couldn’t feel tears acutely on his face, but he could feel them where they’d trickled down his neck and soaked his collar.

“Shh,” she said, stroking his cheekbone with one thumb and his brow with the other. “It’s okay. We’ll get through it together, remember? It’ll be okay. I’m here, and I’ll stay for as long as you need me to.”

Sandor nodded, eyes still tightly shut as she whispered near his ear. Every instinct was screaming at him to get away from her, that she was only going to hurt him— trying to get him vulnerable so she could break him down and rip him to shreds. But he didn’t wrench away from her. If she wanted to destroy him, she would get her wish because Sandor was unable to move to save his life. She was like a witch, a sorceress.

Sansa dragged her fingers along his bicep mindlessly, speaking softly as if trying to get an infant to fall asleep. She’d pulled him back onto her some time ago, though it took a while to register. The side of his face rested beside her neck. 

But as comforting as her touch was, Sandor didn’t want to sleep. Sleeping was somewhere that they couldn’t really be together. It was a place full of fire that she couldn’t save him from. Sandor wouldn’t go to sleep if he could help himself... the place to be together was here and now.

“I remember what I said yesterday,” she told him. “What you wanted to tell me in the car?”

His breath was coming out in a weak rasp, like he was dying. 

“The waitress,” Sansa said. She dragged her fingers along his back and his arms. “From IHOP? I should’ve done worse to her for looking at you like that.”

Sandor let out a short, delayed chuckle.

She brushed the hair off of his face. “I won’t let anyone hurt you,” she said.

He sort of believed her. 

Sandor mustered up the energy to drag himself up. When he saw her eyes though, he knew that it was a mistake. He didn’t want her to see him for this part, but he was aching terribly.

“Sansa...?”

She nodded curiously.

He took a deep breath. “Your brother said that... When we met, he called me your... _boyfriend_.” Sandor gulped involuntarily at the word. He wiped some sweat off of his forehead with the back of his hand. “And you said it when... And I know that I said I liked it... and you agreed... but...”

“Is it true? Are we... Am I really your _boyfriend_...?” asked Sandor. “Do you actually _want_ me to be...?”

“Of course I do, Sandor,” said Sansa unhesitatingly. She cradled his hands where they were jittery in his lap. “Of course you’re really my boyfriend.” She pulled one of his hands to her lips and gave his fingers a few open-mouthed kisses.

Sandor let out a breath that made his shoulders sink and his back lower.

“And I’m your girlfriend,” she said, and let his hands go so she could pull his limp body back on top of hers.

It’d been more than the answer he was hoping for yet the whole ordeal had left him utterly drained of energy and comprehension. For being this close to her, Sandor wasn’t even aroused. He was on top of her in his _bed_ , in his _apartment_ , she was _there_ with him— and his cock was too slow to even figure it out.

His body was atop hers in a way that would’ve made him feel incredibly protective, had he not just broken down in front of her _again_. At this point it seemed there was nothing he could do to instill the same security she’d reinforced in him, or anything equivalent. He’d done nothing to deserve to her yet here she was, professing all these declarations that made him feel like a swaddled child.

Sansa sifted through his hair. “You and me will get through this, okay?”

Sandor could hardly focus on the things she was saying. To hear her was one thing, but to process and react— a concept. His nose was tilted into her neck and she smelled so fucking exquisite that he wouldn’t have dreamt of actually responding to her question.

Sansa kissed the crown of his head and held him tightly and in a way, it felt more like her bed than his. But if that would’ve gotten her to stay the night, then fuck it: the bed was hers.

“Do you remember?” asked Sansa. She was running her fingers over his back and he really wished he’d taken his shirt off because everything was _burning_ again.

He hoped she was about to go on with another story or something so he wouldn’t have to embarrass himself by speaking again but she seemed to be waiting for an answer.

Sandor raised his head enough to look at her eyes... but it was too intimidating, so he let his gaze fall to her lips. It could only really be one thing, couldn’t it? If he managed to fuck this up...

Sandor swallowed. “...Together...?”

Sansa beamed, which was Sandor’s reward that he hadn’t failed this critical test. He couldn’t help but smile greatly at her contented expression.

She nodded, and pulled his head in for a kiss. 

He decided that sleep would’ve been welcome then, but his mind was going a bit crazy wondering how she was feeling. He was supposed to be hosting her. What if she was bored? What if she wanted to go home? What if he’d finally managed to disgust her, to show her how weak and broken he really was? 

”You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” Sandor told her, staring at the wall across from him. 

Sansa resumed combing his hair through her fingers contentedly. “I don’t have anywhere else to be,” she said in a lullaby. 

“My laptop is over there if you want to watch a movie,” he suggested. He hoped that she would say no so that neither of them had to move, but he wouldn’t have minded the distraction. 

“I don’t need a movie, Sandor,” said Sansa as she kissed the crown of his head again. “I’d rather just focus on you if that’s okay.” 

Sandor nodded weakly. Anything she wanted would be hers if he had any say in the matter. He still didn’t know where to touch her, and she still hadn’t taken her clothes off— but he found that he didn’t want that anymore. Of course, he still ached for her— but this was so much more fulfilling. 

He’d been waiting for something magical to happen between them, and he thought that the only solution was for them to get naked and roll between the sheets for a while... But something magical already _had_ happened and he’d blinked and missed it. Sandor couldn’t recall the exact moment when he signed himself over, but he was hers now. She was the only thing that stood between him and hellfire and while he knew he wasn’t truly safe yet, she’d done a hell of a job making him feel as much. 

“Oh no! I forgot,” Sansa pushed him gently to the side. “I’ll be right back,” she said as she wandered away. “I promised that you’d eat something and you still haven’t. Pad thai okay?”

Sandor nodded, which was practically the extent of his abilities at the moment. He didn’t really want pad thai but he wouldn’t have her cooking something up for him. She’d already done so much. 

Sansa sauntered off into the kitchen. 

“Wait,” he called out. “The microwave is broken.” He started to sit up.

”Stay there, it’ll only be ten minutes!” she said, and Sandor fell back onto the pillows. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so this is the end of part one. Part two will begin almost immediately after this chapter is concluded. Do you want a Sansa POV? And how would you all feel about them quarantining together? Personally, I’m trying not to think about the state of the world but there are so many possibilities for the two of them locked in Sandor’s apartment... 
> 
> Since the beginning of this fic I’ve been nervous ab how you guys would think of Sandor? He’s depressed in the show and even more so in the books, but he still portrays so much strength— and i’ve been focusing so heavily on his trauma. I’ve been a little nervous that I strayed too far from his character... but it seems like you guys are taking well to my depiction and I’m really pleased. Thanks so much for the support.
> 
> While this is the end of “part one,” things i didn’t hop back to will be making a full appearance in part two. Like Sansa’s mystery sketch & my promises for #littlespoonsandor 
> 
> Your suggestions and feedback are much appreciated 🥰 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


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